


Guilty Until Proven Innocent || IDW Transformers: MTMTE

by ChatterBoxomie



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Creepy Fluff, Cruelty, Dubcon Kissing, Eventual Smut, Extortion, Fucked Up, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Minor Character Death, Murphy's Law, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Other, Stalking, Torture, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:17:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 39,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6997522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChatterBoxomie/pseuds/ChatterBoxomie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Decepticon Justice Division are the ones responsible for exacting justice within the ranks of Lord Megatron's glorious empire. And by justice, I mean "unmarked graves". Assuming there's enough left of their victims to bury.</p><p>All transgressors land themselves a place on the List, and if the rumors are true, once you make it onto the List, you're done. There's no corner of the universe than can hide you for very long, and you're almost guaranteed a long and painful death. Unless, that is, you're actually innocent.</p><p>But, you know, who's gonna believe the word of a traitor?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 00| Woe is Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my works including an original character as the main protagonist (if what they get themselves involved in later even means they can still be called that). I hope no one here minds OC's all that much. It was just for the sake of a well-developed history and character traits. Although I do promise you that you may find Mallory Wentz very relatable.
> 
> Of course, warnings for the DJD being themselves, and Kaon being a creepy motherfucker, but if you're into that, then welcome home. lol.
> 
> This might end up being pretty long. Also, people will die. Probably not Mallory, since I need her to tell the story, but nonetheless, don't ever assume anyone is safe. I mean, this is the DJD, where they can even take each other out, with the right incentive (or even the wrong one, lol).
> 
> Don't worry, though. I haven't forgotten about the little projects for "... loving you is easy". I'm going to keep posting there. It's summer: I've got PLENTY of time.

“I'm not afraid of death; I just don't want to be there when it happens.”

\- Woody Allen

Her feet pounded on the pavement, heart in her throat, and she told herself, not for the first time in her life, that she was _so fucking screwed_. How was she supposed to make it out of this alive? That no-eyed freak had made it pretty clear to her that he wasn’t alone, and even though she hadn’t seen anyone else, yet, she believed him. He had no reason to lie: it wasn’t like she was _going_ anywhere. She was well and truly fucked.

How had she gotten herself into this situation? She liked to believe she was street-smart: she knew better than to walk alone at night (especially since she had no way of defending herself), she didn’t answer the door to strangers, she didn’t pick up unknown calls, and she never, ever underestimated anybody (no matter how _vapid_ they appeared to be, upon first glance).

And, yet, here she was.

_The story of my life… and now, it’s come to its inevitable end._

She wanted to cry, or maybe call for help, but she was afraid of opening her mouth and _screaming_ , instead. For just a second, she thought about _praying_ , too, but she knew it wouldn’t make a difference (and immediately chastised herself for the _ridiculousness_ of the notion); why would any deity in the universe waste their time on a girl who’d never prayed to them until it was most convenient?

She knew the jig was up; _atheists only prayed when there was no hope left_.

(She couldn’t remember the first time she’d heard that, or from who, but she knew, in her heart ( _trembling, weeping, terrified_ ), that it was true.)

She didn’t know if there was anything to look forward to in the afterlife; that, alone, made this situation ten times worse than it should have been. At least, given the same situation, anyone else could come to some kind of grips. _They_ could pray, and think of Heaven (or whatever “paradise” they believed in), and soothe their poor, frantic little hearts. _Her_?

All _she_ could think about were those empty, black holes where his eyes should have been, and that horrifying grin. (As if he found this whole ordeal _hilarious_ ; like it was all a sick fucking _joke_ to him – and, upon further consideration, it probably _was_.)

She had to stop, eventually. She knew it, and so did _they_ (she reckoned). Her calves were burning, her ankles crying out in protest, and her heart was thundering in her chest. Her hands clenched, unclenched, clenched (again). She didn’t know what she hoped to accomplish by tiring herself out, and she didn’t know what was waiting for her when she stopped, but she _did_ know that she couldn’t go back home.

(She’d watched enough T.V. to know that leading an assailant (or several) to one’s own home in the middle of the night was _never_ a good idea.)

But… where else could she go? Her apartment was all she had. She once told herself that having no friends was easier, but now, it was beginning to look like she’d dug her own grave.

She supposed she must have been so preoccupied with her own personal hysteria that she hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. That was the only way she could think to explain away her surprise when she found herself sprawled across the ground.

The gravel bit into her hands, and she could swear that was _blood_ in her mouth.

Her ears were ringing, and her eyes were watering (and she wasn’t sure if it was the fear, the pain, or the self-pity that was to blame), but she still managed to overhear bits and pieces of the conversation that was taking place behind her.

Overhear, but not _understand_.

She wasn’t sure what language they were speaking, but it sure wasn’t English.

There was a sharper string of sounds that she was _sure_ couldn’t be part of the same language, but it _still_ wasn’t anything she recognized. (It struck her that whatever was being said didn’t sound very _human_ , at all, but she quickly dismissed this notion as ridiculous and paranoid.)

She scrambled to her feet, trying to (forcefully) blink away the wetness in her eyes, but before she could do much else (like maybe break into a run, once again), her body was forced to stay put by the firm, tight (painful) grip on her shoulders. She wanted desperately to look back, to see who it was that had signed her fate, but his grip wasn’t allowing very much leeway (in terms of motor activity).

And there was the matter of the man standing directly before her. (Or, what she could only _assume_ was a man, judging from his build.) He appeared to be sizing her up; or, perhaps, he wasn’t looking at her, at all. It was difficult to tell, what with that strange mask effectively blocking his face from view. (As for the mask, she wasn’t sure what to make of it. It’s not as if she was unaware of the existence of street gangs and their growing affinity for provincial symbolism – no, the problem was that she couldn’t recall what gang, _if_ _any_ , affiliated with _this_ particular symbol.)

He appeared to be speaking (to whom, she was unsure), but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. (And even if he _hadn’t_ been wearing a mask, she _still_ wouldn’t be able to tell; she wasn’t exactly an “expert” at reading lips.)

When no one responded, she realized he must have been speaking to _her_.

And whatever words _she_ had been planning on saying in return (like, for example, “What do you want?” or “Please don’t kill me,” or “What the fuck is your damage?”) just shriveled up in her throat when she came to the abrupt realization that the eyes peering out at her through the holes in his (creepy) mask were _red_.

Of course, she wasn’t surprised that they found her sudden bout of stifled silence amusing.

( _These guys are total freaks_ , she was dismayed to note.)

(Which meant her chances of surviving this… _whatever_ _this was_ just dropped to 0.00001%.)

The tall, masked man turned his back to her, and cleared his throat, before directing his next words at someone else. ( _How many of them_ are _there?_ )

She was horrified to discover that the newcomer (considering he’d only just caught up, judging by his huffing and panting) was the (blind) homeless (?) man from before.

He was still wearing that same, infernal grin. She felt sick to her stomach just _thinking_ about the possibility that it may be the last smile she ever saw. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t decipher the sounds that they were making. (Which made no sense… he’d spoken English earlier, clear as day, so… what _was_ this?)

(Was he their fucking _translator_?)

“Kaon tells me that you don’t remember the common tongue. Is this true?”

( _Kai-on? What the hell was a Kai-on?_ )

(And “common tongue”? Did he mean their strange foreign language?)

Apparently, her silence displeased him. “I would suggest that you try _very hard_ to answer my questions. You see, I am extending this last bit of civility as a courtesy, to both the memory of your greatness, and to the fact that you once called me _Commander_.”

(She didn’t remember _ever_ calling anyone “commander”, much less this hulking mass of a man.)

(But she wasn’t sure that saying so was a good idea. He sounded angry enough, as it was.)

(Of course, she’d also never met an angry gangster who even knew what the word “courtesy” meant. She wasn’t sure which part of this experience was stranger: his impressive vocabulary (for a thug), or the fact that he acted like he knew who she was.)

“So, let’s try that, _again_ , shall we?” He took her silence as agreement. “Have you forgotten the language native to your own home? Or are you merely playing at being _stupider_ than you actually are?”

“Woah, hey, I’m not _stupid_ ,” she protested, despite feeling _very stupid_ , indeed. (Here she was, being restrained by a thug who could probably bench-press 1,000 pounds, easy, and she thought it was a good idea to mouth off to their lunatic “commander”?)

( _Lord, or, er, Gods, have mercy on my dumbass soul_.)

“I disagree, Perjury. See, you led us all on quite the _goose chase_ , if that is how it’s said. And now, here we stand, having finally caught up to you, and you can’t even defend yourself in your own native language. If that is _not_ a show of stupidity, then I haven’t the faintest idea what _is_.”

( ** _Perjury_**? Did he just… address her as “Perjury”? Was that a new way of insulting someone, or was he just _insane_?)

“You’re probably wondering how we found you.”

( _I’m wondering who you are and_ why _you were looking for me, in the first place, but I guess that’s as good a place as any to start._ )

“You have only yourself to blame, and I don’t doubt that you are not very surprised by that. _I_ certainly am not. See, in your arrogance, you lost sight of your mortality – of the very existence of your _spark signature_. And you just couldn’t resist, could you? Signing your fate away by advertising to your fellow Scavengers, _miserly bottom-feeders that they are_ , of your current location on this organic-lifeform-infested planet.”

“I… what? _Scavengers_?” (Either she wasn’t hearing him right, or he just wasn’t making any sense.)

There was a sharp, low hiss, almost animalistic, from her right; she was almost afraid to look.

(No, not “almost”. _Definitely, pathetically_ afraid.)

“Patience, Vos. You will have your turn.”

(He sounded more like an overzealous dog trainer, scolding an unruly pup, than a gangster restricting immediate violence (and _death-bringing_ ) from his fellow brothers-in-crime.)

“Do you know why we are here?”

He peered down at her, through those red, red eyes, and she was stumped between disbelief (because _did he actually expect her to understand what was going on in his demented little head_?) and fear (because _holy shit, what if she_ had _fucked up and couldn’t even_ remember _fucking up; was that grounds for immediate termination if she admitted as much?_ ).

(Of course, even if she was afraid of contradicting him, she was also terrified of what would happen to her if she played along. _What a hard line to walk: fear of death by truth, or fear of death by lie_.)

(Honestly, _who_ had written the script of her life? She had always known that she was unfortunate (hell, even her own _name_ knew it), but this was a whole new level of “ridiculously unlucky”.)

So, that was how she made her (very poor) decision. If she was going to die, she _certainly_ wasn’t going to do so without defending her honor, at the very least.

She didn’t trust her own voice (especially since the last thing she wanted was to burst into sobs – something told her that crying and begging for her life wasn’t going to do her any favors), so, instead of speaking, she just shook her head, slowly. (She **_hated_** how much she was shaking, because, _Christ_ , couldn’t she at least die with a sliver of dignity?)

“Tell me, have you _truly_ no idea?”

 _Hoo_ , _boy_ , did he sound **_pissed_**. (Like her admittance of ignorance had personally offended him.)

(It probably _had_.)

(Why did she get the feeling that he wasn’t angry about some kind of turf dispute?)

(This sounded… _personal_. Oddly enough, considering that, _hello_ , she didn’t **_know_** the guy.)

She didn’t respond. (Fearing for her life if she so much as _whispered_ a _single syllable_.)

And that _really_ didn’t seem to sit well with them. The red-eyed devil took another step towards her, and the behemoth behind her tightened his grip on her shoulders. (Painfully so. She was sure that if he kept that up, he’d dislocate her shoulders ( ** _both_** of them). What _really_ tickled her about this observation was that he’d probably go through with it without so much as a blink of an eye.)

The gleam in those red eyes was horrifying, and she didn’t remember _ever_ feeling this afraid, before, not like she was now, having come to the realization that she really _was_ going to die, here, unless she could find a way to escape this situation.

Her mouth had opened, and the words had escaped, before she could stop them.

“What do you want from me, huh? An _apology_? I don’t even know who you are!”

There was a sharp string of words, once more, and, again, ones she didn’t understand. She hadn’t noticed until now, but there was a figure smaller than the rest, gesturing towards her in a manner she found must have been rather crude (although she couldn’t quite make out _why_ ).

“For once, I have to agree with Vos, Tarn. You know what _their kind’_ s like: liars, the whole lot of them.” That was _another_ man; one she hadn’t noticed until now, either. A big man, _really big_ , but not exactly the size of the behemoth standing behind her.

(How many of them _were_ there?)

A hum from the man standing before her. “Are you, then, Perjury? _A liar_? I do suppose that the truth is in your name. _Really_ , trusting a mech with _your_ name… I don’t know what Commander Starscream was thinking when he granted you a role in Lord Megatron’s empire, but then, he wasn’t always the _brightest_ mech. Or, perhaps, he knew all along, and it was _he_ who sanctioned your transgression.”

(This all sounded like speculation, if you asked her.)

(Which nobody did.)

(And, well, this wasn’t a court of law, so it wasn’t like it mattered what was true and what wasn’t.)

“Nonetheless, here we are, and none of your friends stand beside you. Isn’t that a shame?”

( _Friends_? She swallowed the temptation to laugh, because even if she found his (plentiful) ignorance of her amusing, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to make him think she was _goading_ him.)

(Lord only knew just how loosely this man was holding onto his sanity. She didn’t want to be the one to push him over the edge.)

(Especially not when she was surrounded by his entourage of thugs.)

“Hey, trust you me, I am just as disappointed by how my life turned out as you are.”

The behemoth keeping her in place snorted (with laughter?), and the blind (?) homeless (?) man standing a few paces behind the red-eyed devil made a sound that she could swear was an honest-to-God _giggle_. (And she didn’t think she would ever hear anything creepier than the giggle of a fully-grown man – doubly so for a man with _no fucking eyes_.)

“Did you expect them to come? Is _that_ what is ‘disappointing’?” those red eyes were gone for a split second, and then back, fiercer, sharper than before. (He was losing his patience, she realized, and felt a prick of panic. But what was she supposed to do? This situation was out of her hands (and _way_ over her head)! She didn’t _know_ him, or anyone else here, and she didn’t know who the fuck the _Scavengers_ were supposed to be, or why the red-eyed devil kept calling her “Perjury”, or why the universe was playing her like this – and she didn’t _want_ to know. What she _did_ know was how warm her house was in comparison to the freezing cold rain, and what she _did_ want was to go there, right now, and never, _ever_ come back out.)

(She also found herself considering that, flaring up like that, his eyes almost looked like flames.)

( _Red-eyed devil_ , indeed.)

She didn’t know what she was going to say, but she saw the look on the blind (?) man’s face, and the way the bigger guy next to him furrowed his eyebrows, like they were expecting her to wave her hand, laugh, and pronounce her own ignorance a joke.

Maybe it was the rain, or the stress, or the nerves – she didn’t know what came over her, but she suddenly found the whole situation not only ridiculous, but also _hilarious_. Here she was, surrounded by complete strangers, being bullied into confessing to a crime she didn’t even commit, and she _still_ had no idea what that crime even was.

“No, **_asshole_**. You _really_ wanna know what’s bothering me about this, what’s so ‘disappointing’?” (Mocking him to his face – er, mask, probably wasn’t a good idea. But, then again, she wasn’t exactly world-renown for her ‘good ideas’.) “The fact that you don’t even care if I really _did_ do anything, or not. You just want to kill someone and be done with it. So, please, do me a favor and don’t try to look for some kind of justification for your fucked-up little witch-hunt. I deserve at least _that_ much dignity if I’m going to die here.”

“ _Witch-hunt_? That is certainly an interesting phrase to use.”

(He didn’t seem at all moved by her words. _Figures_.)

Of course, his friends didn’t seem to feel the same serenity that he was exuding.

(Or, maybe _forcing_ himself to display. For all she knew, he could be _furious_ at her outburst.)

“You hear that?”

“I think Perjury’s got a death wish,” growled the behemoth standing behind her.

(Ugh, did he _have_ to breath down her neck like that?)

(She felt herself actually _shudder_ , and hoped it wasn’t visibly obvious.)

There was that same unpleasant string of sharp-sounding words, and, as per usual, the blind (?) man translated: “Vos thinks we should grant him that much. What do you say, Tarn? Can we?”

( _It’s like he’s begging for a turn with a new toy_ , she wondered, in disbelief.)

(And did he just call her a “he”? _What_? Oh, man, he was _definitely_ blind.)

The red-eyed devil held up a single hand, as if to restrain the others standing around them.

“I’m curious,” he drawled. “You call this a ‘witch-hunt’, which implies that you truly believe yourself to be innocent of all crime. Tell me, then, do you know what ‘treason’ is?”

“Of course I know what treason is,” she snapped.

“What’s this about, Tarn?” the behemoth behind her shifted, his tone betraying his uncertainty.

The smaller man behind him said something else in that indecipherable language of his.

“Do you doubt me, Vos?” The inquiry was casual enough, but the edge in his voice made even _her_ uncomfortable. The smaller man responded, but he didn’t sound angry. He sounded… _wary_.

When he looked up at her, making eye-contact (to her dismay), she wondered why his face appeared to be so… _out of place_. And then, when the streetlight above her flickered, weakly, she nearly screamed. _He had no face._ He had eyes, but nothing else, nothing _defining_. No mouth, no nose, just… just… smooth, unblemished _skin_.

(She only realized that she nearly passed out in her adrenaline rush of fear and panic when there was a grunt from behind her, and a sharp pull on her shoulders, forcing her to stay awake.)

(That also may have been because the near-dislocation of her shoulders was too damn painful to ignore. She didn’t hear herself scream, but she figured she must have, judging from the soreness in her throat, _and_ from the way that sick, blind _jackass_ grinned.)

When she came to, she felt herself sway, weak in the behemoth’s grasp, suddenly feeling nauseous. “ – me?” She had no idea what the red-eyed devil had been saying, and she made as much pretty clear.

“Wha?” (Okay, so maybe that wasn’t _entirely_ clear, and her slurring _sure_ didn’t help, but he got the message.)

He made a sound of disapproval, and shook his head, slowly. (As if deep in thought.) “Grip her any tighter, Tesarus, and I may not receive the answers I need.”

A mumbled apology from the nervous titan standing behind her, and she could, at last, feel the blood rush back into her sore arms. She sighed in relief, feeling her head become clearer (if just a tiny bit). “You were saying?” she asked, almost sardonically.

“How long have you been here?”

“Where?” she tried to blink the rain out of her eyes, to no avail.

“This planet, you imbecile. How long have you been here, and why did you come?”

“Did you think you could lose us?” chimed in the blind (?) man.

She had no idea what to make of that question. (What did he mean, _this planet_? Um… she was _born_ here…? Why the _hell_ would they ask her that, like they were expecting any other answer than the norm? _Oh my god, these guys are freaks – and on top of that, they’re fucking insane! I’m going to die at the hands of raving lunatics_. She wanted to sob, but thought better of it.)

“What do you mean?” she asked, slowly, as if she were speaking to toddlers.

The red-eyed devil stepped back, exchanging a look (?) with the blind man, and then, with the rest of his men. As if he were gauging something. Then, he stepped towards her, eyes filled with a rage that both terrified her and made her wish she had never been born. (Or, at least, that she could just disappear into the cement and cease to exist.)

“I do believe that I should commend you for your excellent talent in acting, Perjury. You almost made me believe, for a moment, that you were _actually_ innocent, and that we were mistaken. However, I do not appreciate being played for a fool. So, I suggest you drop the act, unless you would like me to take care of you, _personally_.”

(He didn’t look like much in comparison to the others (in terms of size or creep-factor), but she really wasn’t so sure that she wanted to take _him_ on, either. Especially not when he peered down at her like that, like she was an insect he would _gladly_ trod underfoot, if given the chance (or incentive).)

She had been planning on saying something, maybe to plead for her life, or maybe to tell him what he could do with his suggestion, but she never got a chance. The blind (?) man placed a hand on his commander’s (quote, unquote) shoulder, and, in a soft, troubled voice, told him, “The signal just faded.”

A pause. Then, “ _What_?”

The smaller man shifted his weight from one foot to the other, antsy, and the behemoth behind her said something in another language. (Of course, she didn’t understand a _lick_ of it.)

(She _still_ couldn’t decipher what language they were speaking.)

“His spark signature. It just… _faded_. Just like that. No warning.”

“And no explanation,” rumbled the red-eyed devil. He turned to face her, once again, eyes blazing with either confusion or anger (or _both_ ). “How did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Don’t play games with me,” he surged forward, and she shrunk back, despite knowing it wouldn’t do her any favors. “Give me one good reason we shouldn’t _kill_ you, right here, right now.”

“One good reason? _I’m not him_! I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not him, I **_swear_** it to you! I’m not even a _man_ – how could you _possibly_ mistake me for one?”

“But – his spark signature,” floundered the blind (?) man.

“Might be a setup!” she pointed out, hastily. “I mean, if you guys mistook me for him, it _obviously_ means he’s got a few tricks up his sleeves!” (She didn’t even know what a ‘spark signature’ was, but she sure hoped her explanation made sense. Even if just for a second, so that they could drop their guard, and she could seize that chance to run.)

“A setup? Well, I’m willing to believe a lot, but _that_ is a stretch. There are _many_ ways to hide, but forging a spark signature? And having it imprint onto someone else? Especially if we are to believe that you are an organic with no spark of your own?”

She could hear the doubt in his voice. “It’s _possible_ , though, isn’t it?”

“Hm,” he hummed. “I do suppose it could be. Improbable, but _possible_ , all the same.”

“You’ve _got_ to be _kidding_ me, Tarn,” groaned the behemoth behind her.

“We exact _justice_ , Tesarus, and it would not be called _justice_ if we killed every innocent that was set up by traitors to take the fall for _their_ crimes. This… is an unusual case, I grant that much, and, normally, I would not grant leniency to a traitor claiming to be someone he is not, but as Kaon as demonstrated, there appears to be a great deal of foul play and trickery afoot. And I will **_not_** be manipulated from the shadows, especially by a **_traitor_**.”

The behemoth behind her fell silent, and she found herself suddenly feeling grateful that the red-eyed devil was such a pompous, sanctimonious prick. Of course, this silent gratitude lasted for all of the five seconds it took for him to remember that she was still there.

“Of course, there is very little reason any of us should believe you. And even if you were speaking the truth, you see, you paint yourself as an accomplice to his treachery. If you are not him, yourself, and if this, itself, is not some grand, clever ploy to get us to turn our backs on you.” He lifted his hands, palms turned upward, almost as if shrugging, _what can I say?_ “You must understand, we cannot simply let you go on your word, alone. Especially if you are an accomplice, or Perjury, himself.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?” she wanted to punch him in his smug little face (because she didn’t even have to see it to know that he was probably grinning, the _asshole_ ), but instead, she struggled to stand tall before him (refusing to show fear, especially since it _did_ exist).

“Ah, the million-shanix question.” ( _Shanix_ …? What was that, _Martian currency_?) He straightened up, arms behind him (probably folded, like some douchebag military sergeant). “Isn’t it obvious? You suggested that you might be innocent, that you may have been set up; prove it.”

“What?” she squeaked.

“Find him. If you are not him, then he must be here, _somewhere_. Close enough to frame you, no doubt.” His red eyes made direct contact with hers. (She would never, _ever_ forget those eyes, for as long as she should live.) “If you can find him, and prove that he is who we are searching for, and that you are _not_ , then you will have my official pardon, on behalf of my division, and my permission to go on about your ignorant, pathetic little life. But if you cannot find him, and if I should find out, for certain, that you are _lying_ to me, then, well, you will wish you had accepted your fate sooner.”

“ ** _What_**? But, Tarn, we don’t have time for that! What if he’s just stalling for time?”

“Then, Helex, we shall thoroughly enjoy making an example of him. If it is truly him that stands before us. It is not as if Perjury, or this small organic lifeform who claims not to be him, can escape. And besides,” he laughed, a thoroughly unpleasant sound. (And one that would haunt her nightmares for the rest of her (probably short) life.) “We have all the time in the universe.”

She had been hoping he wouldn’t say that.


	2. 00.2| Where to Begin?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory thinks it might be a good idea to think back and try starting her "investigation" in her own past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably not use interludes a lot, but I will use them for the first few chapters, since I have to switch between present and past.
> 
> Once we get caught up to the present, and onwards, they (probably) won't be necessary, anymore, unless I'm planning on showing events out of her line of knowledge or vision. (Actually, that's a good idea. I'm just going to pat myself on the back, now.)

“Study the past if you would define the future.”

\- Confucius

**Brief Interlude.**

Of course, _that_ was probably not a good place to start. That was a _confusing_ place to start.

No doubt, no one had any idea what was going on. _She_ sure didn’t.

 _How did I get here?_ That was the only question she could think to ask herself as she trudged home, dutifully ignoring the blaring reminder of the end of normality (or _trying_ to). She couldn’t recall her life ever being _perfect_ , but there had to have been a turning point; a moment in her life when “normal” had decided it was done playing nice. (If it ever had.)

She tried to comb her mind, tried to think of all the people she knew, and who could have done this to her (and _why_ ). If she had been set up, there _had_ to have been someone who stepped too close, who acted _off_ , someone who should’ve set off mental alarms (but hadn’t).

Of course, she just kept coming back to that rainy day, a few months back. Middle of October, early in the afternoon; the first time (in a while) that she’d _walked_ home (alone, because she did _everything_ alone).

That was as good a place to start as any, she figured.

And, so, she did, as carefully as if her life depended on it.

Because it _did_.


	3. 01| the Shadow of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's take a walk down memory lane, shall we?
> 
> Meet Mallory Wentz, the most unfortunate person to ever walk this Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahah. I actually really like Mallory. She's not so different from me.
> 
> (Except, of course, that I'm not an orphan, and I'm not studying law, and I don't work in a hotel.)
> 
> (Actually, maybe we're more different than we are similar.)

“Beginnings are sudden, but also insidious. They creep up on you sideways, they keep to the shadows, they lurk unrecognized. Then, later, they spring.”

\- Margaret Atwood, _The Blind Assassin_

**1.**

The rain was sharp and unforgiving – the exact _opposite_ of what Mallory Wentz had been expecting. It was miserable, and freezing, and _damnit, wasn’t the sun supposed to be shining today_?

She’d left her umbrella at home, the precious thing that it was (“precious” only because it _usually_ performed well in protecting her from the vicious assault of the sky), because, for _once_ in her life, she’d decided to trust the word of the local weather station. _Hah, last time I do_ that _._

She huffed, tightening her grip around her bag. Just _once_ , it would have been nice if things could have worked out in her favor. Instead of, _you know_ , the universe spitting in her face, as per usual. _I’m not bitter – I promise._

She’d missed the bus, and her car was in the shop, so, now, she was forced to walk the _ten fucking miles_ from her school’s campus to her new home. She was _not_ having a good day, or even a good _week_ , needless to say.

Mallory supposed she wasn’t really paying a whole lot of attention to her surroundings. (Her glasses were fogged up, and dripping wet, so _they_ weren’t exactly of any help (to _anyone_ , much less _her_ ).) And, of course, being that she wasn’t exactly traipsing through the upper East side (where all the “refined” and “elegant” folks lived), she really should have considered maybe keeping an eye out for any foul play. But, at the moment, all she cared about was getting home, and maybe steaming herself up a hot cup of coffee (to give herself a boost for all the work she had to complete), and, also, maybe sitting in front of the heater so that she could pretend it was a fireplace (and _wow_ , if that didn’t sound _utterly pathetic_ ).

Of course, her body began to conspire against her; as soon as she began to think that maybe she could make it all the way without stopping to rest (cue a snort of derision), her legs began to burn in that familiar way that warned her _either sit down willingly, or I will force you_.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and broke into a slight trot. _Okay_ , she caved, _maybe I’ll sit down. For a minute – that’s_ it _. After that, it’s fair game._

Satisfied that she’d put her body in its place (??), she dropped her bag, unceremoniously, onto the wet pavement beside one of the house’s cemented boundary-ridges. She, herself, plopped down directly onto said ridge, wishing she had something a little more comfortable to use as a “bench”, but resting her case, nonetheless. (If she got too comfortable, she might have trouble convincing herself to leave. _Trials of the orphan_ , she mused.)

She allowed her eyes to wander, drinking in the damp and dreary scenery. Muted green shrubbery, discarded straws and cans gathering in puddles of rainwater, curtained windows and closed doors. What a horrible little neighborhood. (Mallory would have allowed herself to pity the residents if she didn’t have so much more to criticize about her _own_ circumstances.)

And that was when it caught her eye. She nearly did a double-take, and had to clean off her glasses to make sure she was seeing correctly. _No way_. Was that… _an electric chair_?

She couldn’t even _begin_ to comprehend what she was seeing. Sure, it _must’ve_ been an electric chair – the design was similar to what she’d seen on T.V. But, of course, since she’d never exactly had any _personal experience_ with them, she couldn’t be too sure. And, anyways, there was _no way_ that’s what it was. Why would there be one of those… _things_ sitting around in the middle of an alleyway in Fucktown, Ohio? (To be fair, that’s not _actually_ what this place was called, but it might as well have been.)

To explore, or not to – _that_ was the question.

Naturally, her curious disposition got the better of her (no explanation there – Mallory was just _really fucking stupid_ , sometimes), and she found herself blinking away the rain as she approached the desolate old thing. For maybe the first real time in her life, she felt a cold chill grip her heart, and it was like the floor had dropped out from under her feet. There was an unmistakable sense of foreboding, echoing and tugging at her mind, warning her, in no uncertain terms, _get away from that fucking thing. What the hell are you doing? Are you out of your mind?_

What was wrong with her, indeed? Why was she so damn scared, all of a sudden? Electric chairs, in and of themselves, weren’t much of a threat to _anyone_ , not without an energy source.

 _Chill, Mallory._ She carefully, _carefully_ , ran a finger along the length of one of the arms. Weren’t electric chairs usually made out of _wood_? This one didn’t appear to be. All metal, with honest-to-God treads. Like a _moving_ electric chair? ( _What the actual fuck…?_ )

And were those… _tesla coils_ mounted on the sides? “Wow. Real _modern_ , huh?”

She wasn’t sure whether she should be _impressed_ or _terrified_.

(Come to think of it, it didn’t make sense for a facility with this sort of equipment to just dump it where any man, woman, or child could access it. It seemed almost _reckless_ , actually. What if there’d been leftover charge? And besides, it didn’t appear to be riddled with any sort of outlet, or _whatever_ it was that these things needed to be used, so _where in the hell_ did it get all its energy from, anyways? Was it remote-controlled?)

The clasps were suspiciously clean, as if someone had diligently spent the last few hours scrubbing at the scuff marks and… was that _dried_ _blood_ on the seat? (No, it wasn’t possible. People didn’t bleed because of these things – they just died. Electric charges, right to the head. It didn’t _make_ _sense_ for blood to come into contact with the chair, at _any_ point in time. Unless… unless this _wasn’t_ official, government property. Unless this was actually a _torture device_ left out by God-only-knew-who.)

That really did it. She could actually feel herself shudder, and backed away, slowly, fully intending to _get the hell out of Dodge_. To her immense relief, nothing happened: the chair just sat there, as inert as ever (and she wondered, briefly, what she’d been expecting). Her fingers slipped through the straps of her bag, and she carefully picked her way through all of the trash and puddles of dirty leaves and rainwater, mind already elsewhere.

Her back was turned to the alleyway, so, for obvious reasons, she never saw the way the tesla coils sparked atop the “immobile” electric chair. And she didn’t stop to question the feeling that she was being watched.

 

**2.**

The lights flickered, once, twice, and then, the hallways were plunged into infinite darkness. Mallory remembered having read, somewhere, that tonight was supposed to be a new moon, so that explained why only (very faint) starlight proved to be of any (barely-competent) aid in contributing (very little) visibility to the space around her.

She reached up, taking a hold of the cushions around her ears, and fingered the cords of her (glitchy) headphones, warily, allowing herself to wait for just a few seconds before deciding that the lights weren’t going to turn _themselves_ on.

Because she was the only one working in this particular wing of the hotel, she’d been told that if she needed any help (and she supposed that _technical difficulties_ counted as “needing help”), she was supposed to call management. However, being that it was nearly three in the morning, she wasn’t surprised when her manager didn’t answer his phone.

(She was annoyed, but not surprised.)

( _Perks of working night-shift_ , she supposed.)

What _did_ surprise her was that when she started forward, fully intending on making her way to the lobby to ask for help, a door slammed somewhere behind her _so loud_ that she was actually able to hear it _clearly_ over the music that was being played ( _at full blast_ ) into her ears.

(And maybe she _did_ jump about a foot into the air, but it’s not like anyone had any proof.)

She nearly tore her headphones off, ears straining in the darkness, trying to make out, over the loud thundering of her heart in her chest, if it was just one of the guests. (Or if she was wasting precious running-away time by just standing around doing nothing.)

It was so quiet she could have heard a pin drop from a mile away.

…

…

…

She was beginning to think that maybe she had just imagined it, or maybe it _had_ just been one of the guests, probably drunk (no one in their right mind, otherwise, would **_slam_** a door like that, at these wee hours of the morning) – but in that exact moment, when she was shrugging her shoulders (attempting to convince herself to _stop being so damn paranoid, Mallory_ ), and raising both hands to re-adjust her headphones … one of the floorboards _creaked_ behind her.

She spun on her heel, but she didn’t know what she’d been expecting. She couldn’t see five feet in front of her; even if something (or some _one_ ) _had_ been there, it wasn’t as if she could have found out by using her _eyes_ , alone. There was another creak, and then another, and she couldn’t take the suspense, anymore, so rather than wait, terrified, in the darkness, for something or someone to grab her (and do _God-only-knew-what_ to her), she stumbled back, knowing that there was a stairwell on her end of the hallway.

She could hear whoever (or _what_ ever) it was following her through the dark, floorboards creaking and _why wasn’t it breathing_ (?!); by the time her fingers closed around the handle to one of the large double doors (the last bit of ground to cover before she could make a mad dash for the lobby), her heart was trying its hardest to crawl up her throat and escape her body.

(She suspected it would prefer _this_ sort of death to whatever the stranger ( _or creature_ ) on her tail had planned.) She never got a chance to find out, of course, because just as she was pushing, with all her might (it felt suspiciously like struggling to move concrete – _was it blocked_? (!)), against the doors, huffing and puffing, wondering whether she should scream for help, the lights flickered, contending to defeat the (localized) blackout, and she realized that she was all alone.

Her back made contact with the doors behind her, and she tumbled right through the now-gaping doorway, colliding against the railing; thankfully, that was what broke her (potential) fall. She found herself gasping for breath, wondering what the hell _that_ was, and trying to still her rapidly-beating heart.

One quick glance into the hallway she’d been tidying up confirmed her suspicions: _just my imagination_. But doubt lingered, in the form of a swinging door at the far end of the wing.

Giving her pause to consider: _who (or **what** ) _was _that?_

 

**3.**

“— claim to be _distraught_. Funeral arrangements are being made, and it’s looking like the death will be ruled a suicide – however unfortunate the news is. Mrs. Sheffield, his mother, claims that there is _no way_ this was anything _but_ a homicide, but the local police have their doubts. No foul play appears to be evident from the lack of DNA evidence…”

She snorted, and subsequently cursed under her breath, holding the offending blade away from herself and dropping it onto the counter with a loud _clatter_ , and immediately taking her finger into her mouth. (Her tongue and teeth would go on to taste like copper for the rest of the evening.)

“Just because there’s no DNA evidence, doesn’t mean there wasn’t a murder,” she muttered to herself, wondering why she bothered; it wasn’t as if anyone was around to debate her reasonable conclusion.

(Or to appreciate her surplus of knowledge about basic murder investigations (because she doubted someone would do that to themselves, _no matter_ _the reason_ ).)

What was the “suicide method” in question? _Death by grinder_. What kind? The reporters weren’t saying, but it looked to her to be very similar to the sort of wounds inflicted by a turbine grinder – which made no sense, because she’d never seen one large enough to inflict serious damage (beyond a lost finger, or two), much less _death_. Save for maybe a wind turbine, but those were so high up that it wasn’t even _possible_ for someone to get up there unless they climbed (which she considered to be an impressive feat, _alone_ ). And birds were only ever the real victims of _those_ , so if an actual human being had died via wind turbine, this would certainly achieve a new height on the world record of _dumbass_.

So, she suspected what had happened was that, maybe, she was reading this wrong, and the victim might have been pushed through a wood chipper ( _possible_ , but not _probable_ , either). Or… or… _somehow_ , someone had managed to kill another human being using some kind of turbine grinder (possibly a wind turbine).

“— found dead this morning by a jogger whose name is undisclosed for reasons of anonymity. Autopsy reports claim that the cause of death was cardiac arrest – rumored to be connected to high level electrocution. Scarring on the temple, as well as burned hair and severely burned portions of skin on the victim’s face, corroborate this theory. Local police report no suspects, as of now, but claim they will keep the public posted. Whether or not this is true is yet to be discovered.”

 _Jesus Christ_.

“Our source claims that they found the victim seated in what appeared to be an electric chair. Turning his back on the scene of the crime in order to contact the police resulted in the mysterious disappearance of said structure. There have been further sightings reported of the same electric chair, but fortunately for all involved, no other corpses. The police declined to comment on whether or not this could mean the emergence of a local serial killer. More on this story tomorrow at 9/8 central. This sketch has been produced by the witness, himself. If anyone should happen to spot it, themselves, it is imperative that they contact the local authorities, _immediately_.”

Her mouth fell open. _No way…_

It was the same one she had seen before! A _whole_ _month_ _back_ , in fact.

The proportions were a bit iffy, but the similarity was striking.

She wondered whether it would even _matter_ if she reported the sighting. It had happened _a_ _month_ ago. It wasn’t like her information would help; she was too late.

(She tried not to ponder the possibility that a life could have been spared had she reported the damn thing upon _first sighting_.)

Just as she was thinking about turning the T.V. off to try and get dinner on the stove (without any unnecessary distractions – it was difficult to slave over a greasy pan when all she could think about was _that damn chair_ ), there was a loud, shrill _yipping_ that floated in through the (single) window of her kitchen. One that gave her pause.

_What the hell was **that**?_

Placing the knife down parallel to the cutting board, she made her way towards the back door, wondering if she should have brought it with her (the knife, not the door). One glance out through the window assuaged her worries: it was just someone’s dog, probably let out for its evening romp. She didn’t question how it had found its way into her yard; _that’s what happens when you don’t have a fence, Mallory_.

It had its back to her, and it appeared to be digging its paws into the dirt and grass in her yard – right where she had planted her sunflowers. (Mallory had decided that it would be fun ( _snort_ ) to try planting them for the summer. Of course, this effort was now rendered moot.)

Despite knowing there was no point, she yelled out, “ ** _Hey!_** Get away from there!”

The creature did not appear to be threatened or intimidated (not even the tiniest bit).

It did, however, turn to face her, crouched on its haunches, long enough to leave her sunflowers alone. She sighed out in relief, a temporary sentiment, of course, because then the _stupid **fucking** animal_ decided it would be _amusing_ to rush head-first into her closed kitchen door.

It whimpered, burying its nose into its paws, and she was torn between laughing and consoling the poor stupid thing. Of course, she quickly changed her mind (about _both_ options) once it looked up, directly into her face, and made eye-contact with her. Her laugh lodged into her throat: what were the chances that a hellhound had made its way into her yard on a Thursday evening?

The supposedly-dimwitted creature had red eyes, and teeth sharp as blades.

“Uh, bad doggy. Just, uh, just crawl back into Hell where you came from, ‘kay? That cool with you?” She didn’t know _what_ she had been expecting; _obviously_ , it didn’t open its mouth to answer her in coherent English. Instead, it howled, _long_ and _loud_ , the sound piercing her eardrums and making her wish she had just let the creature rip up her sunflowers and cut her losses. “ _Jesus Christ_ – I promise you that if you _shut the fuck up_ , I will give you so many treats that you’ll get too fat to fit through your dumbass owner’s doggy door. How’s _that_ sound, ‘buddy’?” (What could she say? Mallory was a cat-person (and this was Exhibit A of _why_ ).)

It growled, but something about her words seemed to click into place, and it promptly lowered itself into a lunge, tail slapping against the stone of her porch with unfettered enthusiasm. ( _I hate you so, **so** much_.) Instead of communicating this in words, however, she hesitantly retrieved a small package of boneless chicken wings, and pulled one out, examining it (for possible bacteria – wouldn’t want to kill _someone else’s_ dog) before chucking it out through her window into the yard. It was quick – _much faster_ than any other living creature she’d _ever_ seen.

In maybe five seconds flat, the creature was back at her porch, tearing apart the raw meat with a rawer ferocity that nearly frightened her. (She found herself thanking her ( _semi_ ) lucky stars for the walls separating them.) And just like that, the creature was stretching out its front legs, kneading at the soft, pliable earth, face turned upwards towards her as its tongue hung heavily out of its open mouth. It didn’t look hungry – just _content_.

She forced herself to remember its red eyes and unearthly speed, and repeated to herself, in a mutter, “ _It’s not cute. It’s not cute. It’s not cute_ …”

But, it _was_ cute. So, **_so_** damn cute. Mallory had no idea how such a frightening-looking creature could somehow manage to look so endearing with a simple wag of its tail – she supposed it must have been the additional slobbering and that distinctly smiling face (the same sort of expression most dogs wore, by their very nature as _dogs_ ). Hellhound or not, it didn’t appear to mean her any harm. (Of course, this, _by no means_ , meant that she was planning to invite the creature inside. _No, thank you._ She might not have been the _cleverest_ person alive, by half, but that didn’t mean that she didn’t possess any of that so-rare “common sense”.)

For that reason, she convinced herself to turn her back on the sight of an over-eager Hellhound (or _whatever_ that creature was supposed to be), and managed to cringe _just once_ as she finished up her meal preparations while being forced to endure the hours-long _yipping_.

And later that evening, she closed all of her windows and blasted her music to block out the howling. It didn’t matter much what she did, though; she didn’t sleep a _wink_ , that night.

 

**4.**

Her eyes were burning, and she lifted her hand, absently, to wipe at them, to try and clear away the exhaustion. It was so dark outside, and so cold – she could hear the storm outside howling, rain pounding against the windows, and found herself wondering whether it was possible for the wind, _itself_ , to break through the heavily-layered glass.

Despite knowing that she was being ridiculous, she couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d heard a few days ago, on the news, about the stranger whose corpse had been found seated, reclined (as if having fallen asleep at a meeting), in that electric chair. The same one she’d never thought she would see, again.

Well, she _had_. Seen it, again, that was; just this morning, she’d been making her daily commute to an American government class (one she took at ten in the morning), and she’d peered out through the windshield, eyes squinting behind her sunglasses (still hungover from the previous night), and, alas, there it was, looking as pristine as if there had never been a corpse’s arm draped over the armrest – rosewood metal, crepe-hued cushions, treads on its feet and tesla coils on its shoulders; haunting and beckoning as ever.

It was alone, unattended, on the lawn of a decrepit, boarded-up apartment complex.

She had pulled her gaze away out of fear of attracting the wrong kind of attention, and forced herself to pass it by, trying her hardest to pretend that she hadn’t noticed it (and hoping that her eyes were just as shielded from being _noticed_ as they were from being _burned_ ).

And now, standing all alone in a hotel she _hated_ working in, cursing the draft for raising goosebumps along her exposed arms ( _thank you, short-sleeved uniform, and thank **you** , dog of a manager, for assigning it_), she couldn’t stop wondering what would have happened if she had stopped to take a picture for evidence. (Had she been planning to speak to the police.)

(She hadn’t been, though, so she hadn’t seen the point in running any later for class than she already was. (Code for **_no way_** _am I stopping for even a **second** anywhere near that thing_.))

Would someone have rushed out of the bushes and killed _her_ , too?

Forced her to sit in that creepy chair and burned the life out of her?

She shuddered, deciding not to waste time worrying about something that wouldn’t happen (hopefully), and instead chose to concern herself about the fact that if she continued to spot it in places where it shouldn’t be (the chair), then, perhaps, she should consider filing a stalking report with the local police.

(That thought was unpleasant, too, but there was no use in denying the possibility to herself.)

(If it even _was_ a possibility, and she wasn’t just being stupidly paranoid.)

(Even though the public _had_ been told to report any sightings, regardless…)

(Maybe it would be stupid _not_ to report it...?)

She lifted her head to watch the lightening, transfixed, the soft violins playing in her ears serving as a mere backdrop to the humming in her head. It took her all of five minutes to realize, once the violins had died down to make way for a steady, not-unpleasant white noise, that the humming wasn’t in her head. Startled, she tore off her headphones, and strained her ears; sure enough, the humming was louder, now, suspended in the cold air – along with the tune to a melody she had **_never_** before heard (not in her entire life, and Mallory liked to think that she knew music _better_ than she knew the Foster System, which was saying quite a lot).

Though she might not have recognized the song, she knew that the voice was male (the one humming; the song _itself_ was instrumental, without any lyrics – _probably_ , unless he was humming the lyrics instead of singing them).

Whoever it was must have been using the intercom speakers. (Which didn’t make sense. Natalie Portman ( _not the actress_ ) was the one in charge of the PA system, and she _most definitely_ wasn’t _male_ (not to mention that classical music wasn’t her cup of tea).)

(Plus, she was certain that there must’ve been some kind of rule in the books about playing music through the intercoms. For the purpose of _guest satisfaction_.)

Before she could intervene (by calling up the lobby to inquire about Natalie’s whereabouts, _for starters_ ), the air was pierced by the most horrifying scream that she had _never_ heard in _real life_ (outside of T.V. and horror movies). The handle of the broom slipped from her grasp with a _clatter_ to the floor (for the _second_ time that month), and she broke into a run, heading for one of the doors at the far end of the hallway – the source of the scream she had heard.

She didn’t know _why_ she didn’t call security, first; surely, if someone was in trouble, there wasn’t much _she_ could do to help. And she wasn’t so sure she even _wanted_ to witness _whatever_ it was that was happening to _whoever_ it was that it was happening to. All she _did_ know was that the scream was so _loud_ , so _jarring_ , and so _raw_ , that she had to wonder if whoever it was would even still be _alive_ by the time she reached them.

Her fingers closed around the smooth metal handle of a silver doorknob, and, to her surprise, it clicked open easily, without a hint of resistance. She slowly, _slowly_ , pushed the door open, peering through the gradually widening gap warily – and was met with a most-confusing sight.

An… _oven_? No, a large _microwave_? No…

Mallory had _no idea_ what she was looking at.

She approached, apprehension bubbling in her gut, and blinked, once, _twice_ , watching as the glass appeared to _fog up_ right before her very eyes. Upon further inspection (via poking at the handle for the oven’s (microwave’s?) glass door), she determined that there was no immediate danger of burning herself. So, she pulled open said door to the contraption ( _whatever_ it was supposed to be), and studied the contents of the space inside. No racks, no trays, and no stands. (So, definitely **_not_** an oven _or_ a microwave…)

There was a smooth white film along the roof (?) of the interior, inside of which, if she bowed her head and leaned in, she could see light bulb fixtures (probably A15, 40-watt; assuming she knew her appliances). She didn’t think there was anything _remarkable_ about the “object” ( _whatever it was_ ), but she couldn’t understand why it was seated in the middle of an otherwise-deserted room that was supposed to be off-limits to anyone but janitorial staff.

( _This is a weird way to heat up hot pockets for a lunch break…_ )

And on top of that, she had _no idea_ where the screams could have originated from, because there was no way it came from _here_. There were no other doors in this room, and this was the only piece of furniture (?) here (and it wasn’t like anyone could hide _inside_ it without being seen through the glass from the _outside_ ).

“Huh.”

She straightened up, unable to explain the burning sensation that she felt was crawling up her spine (and into her heart, quickening its palpitations); it was the same feeling of alarm she’d felt when she’d been studying the “innovative” electric chair (as the reporters had described it) in that alleyway. (And also the same one she’d felt a few weeks back when the blackout had left her in the dark, alone, with an unknown assailant (?).)

In other words, bad news abounds.

It just occurred to her, in that single moment, as she stood perfectly still, eyes studying the interior of the oven-microwave (?), that the humming (but not the music) had stopped. For reasons unexplainable to even herself, her heart clenched upon that realization, and she experienced the sudden urge to leave, **_at once_** (and her mind whispered _don’t look back_ ; if she wasn’t scared, already, that nagging thought _certainly_ helped).

 _Time to leave_ , she decided, and did just that.

Or, well, was _planning_ to. Seconds after she shut the glass door to the unknown appliance (?), the lights inside (glowing bright orange, near red-ish) flickered, and she caught a glimpse of some sort of dried, blue liquid (one she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but worried her, nonetheless (on the basis of w _hat the fuck is that?_ )) that had previously been spilled (?) across the metal surface of the floor (?) of the oven-microwave (?).

She had lots of questions, and no answers. ( _But ‘tis my life, I suppose_.)

Of course, she didn’t exactly stick around to start asking them.

 

**5.**

“Hello?”

“Good morning. May I speak to Mallory Wentz?”

“You are. Who is this?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Jenna Reynolds, with Cerulean Court management?”

She inhaled. “How can I help you?”

“This is just a courtesy call, ma’am. Nothing to worry about; you’re not being fired.”

“That’s… good.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, all services have been suspended for the time being, so you will not be coming in for work in the foreseeable future. More information can be found on your online account, if you’d like, but other than that, you’ll be receiving a call from your supervisor later in the week to confirm when you’ll be returning. If you don’t return to this site, you might be relocated, should you be able to do so.”

“Um… right…?”

“That will be all. Have a good day.”

 _Click_.

Great. She _had_ been (unofficially) fired.

She couldn’t _afford_ to relocate; campus was far enough, as it was, and it wasn’t like she was willing to erase her future in law just to keep a job at some stupid hotel (one she hated, in any case). Mallory had no idea what had happened, but she intended to find out.

If she was going to get sacked (or be forced to “quit”), she deserved to know _why_.

A preliminary internet search (using _Google_ , of course) revealed that a body had been found in one of the rooms, and that the police had closed off the area as a _crime scene_ until the official investigation could be completed.

There weren’t many details in that particular report, so she found herself another website to examine. This one claimed that the body showed signs of severe burns (ranging from second to third-degree), peeling skin, fractured bones, and ruptured organs – along with a disturbing account from the primary witness (a janitor who had smelled what he thought to be “burned beef”, and had accordingly decided to investigate – _big mistake_ ), whom had claimed that he was very certain that the liquid spilling out over the splotchy red leftovers of a quashed nose was “probably brain matter”.

(There was _no way_ she was ever going to get that image out of her head.)

She was suddenly glad that she hadn’t asked.

(It would probably be difficult to explain over the phone, after all, and hearing someone else say it aloud (if “Jenna” had actually decided to comply) might’ve just made her lose her … leftovers. (She hadn’t had breakfast, yet.))

She saw the creature lurking outside before she heard it pawing at her kitchen door.

For the past few days, the same dog (Hellhound (?)) had been returning to her yard, like clockwork. Usually later, during the evening, but _hey_ , why _not_ break the cycle, shake it up?

Exasperated, she turned up the pressure, and held her hands under the flow of water, above the curve of her sink. She was trying to get the disturbing images out of her head, to no avail. She couldn’t imagine how much more difficult it would be if she had actually _seen_ the body.

The pawing ceased, and she turned her head, wondering, involuntarily, if the Hellhound had wounded itself (once again; for all its intimidating features, it wasn’t a very _bright_ creature). It had not, in fact, hurt itself; it had merely found a new manner in which to distract her.

By using its paws to lean up against the wall directly before her, that was.

Its nose was just barely at window-level, and she found herself snorting with the effort of stifling her own laughter. “Dumb dog,” she muttered, more to herself than to anyone else, but she still reached out, unthinking, to place the flat of her hand against its nose.

By the time her reason found her, red-handed, she could only freeze. The creature had done nothing to attack her, and, in fact, appeared to be _nuzzling_ her palm, pressing into her touch, insistently. She knew she should have pulled away, immediately, but she didn’t. Maybe it was the loneliness talking, but something about this small comfort (one she’d never had, not even from other animals (because she could never afford a pet)) beckoned to her, pushing her to slowly, _slowly_ , drop her guard. Enough to cross the kitchen to her back door and hold it open, hesitantly, invitingly. As expected, it approached her once there was no door (or wall) between them, and pressed its furry head into her outstretched hand.

She heard her own voice cooing to the creature as she knelt beside it to comb her fingers through its matted fur, and it responded with enthusiasm, whining as it shoved its nose into her chest, apparently trying to become one with her knitted sweater. She could feel it quivering in her embrace, and realized that it was probably _freezing_ (it was twenty-five degrees (Fahrenheit) out there, after all). Before she could do much else (like maybe set out water and some food, or invite it inside to cuddle with her while she pretended to watch T.V.), a loud voice (angry or exasperated) called out, “ ** _Bad pet!_** You get your _sorry aft_ over here, right now!”

She jumped, startled, the creature moreso. It whimpered, tossing a stray look back, and another call, in the same tone, had it retreating, quickly, back across her yard, yipping all the while. She forced herself to stand up straight, and laid a hand across the top of her eyes to block out the harsh winds, squinting in the direction of the sidewalk in order to see who had interrupted ( _ruined_ ) her momentary contentedness. It was a large man, _very_ large, _well_ over six feet (as far as she could guess), and he had taken hold of the creature (dog (?)), clipping a leash to its collar (one she hadn’t noticed, until now) and placing a hand against its head to prevent it from licking at his face. The creature whimpered, but didn’t attempt it, again.

(She felt a rush of irrational anger. _No wonder_ the poor thing had gone looking for affection, elsewhere.)

(Of course, she also felt concern. Who _was_ this man?)

He finally looked up, in her general direction, and she could see what she swore was a _grin_ on his face. “Sorry ‘bout him,” he said, and even though the wind was _howling_ , she could _still_ hear him, from across the yard. “The Pet’s not done learning, yet, apparently.”

( _The Pet?_ As in, proper noun, “Pet”? Wow. That was… really kind of _demeaning_. Even for a non-sentient creature.)

(Unless his owner was just un-creative and/or dumb. Which he didn’t appear to be.)

(From where she stood, anyways. It wasn’t like she was going to dare going closer just to investigate her hypothesis.)

(Look at her, using the word “hypothesis”, like it had any business being in a normal sentence.)

She didn’t respond. She just turned, and went back inside, and shut the door.

(And locked it, because _duh_ , she didn’t feel like she could trust someone who called his pet, literally, “the Pet”. If he wasn’t a serial killer (because only those kinds of deranged and fucked-up people would find it _unnecessary_ to name their pet anything normal and _un-creepy_ ), then he was, at least, a weirdo, and the last few weeks had been weird enough without introducing _that_ into her life.)

She tried to convince herself that when he began to laugh, it wasn’t at _her_.

(Or at the expression of intense discomfort on her face. Because that would mean he got a kick out of intimidation. And that was one conclusion she would rather _not_ reach.)

(Just because she _did_ want to sleep that night.)

Of course, it wasn’t like she slept a wink _that_ night, either.


	4. 01.2| Ignorance is Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Mallory wishes she had never been born.
> 
> It's tough, not even being able to trust a stupid fucking dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On another note, how cute was the Pet, amirite?
> 
> Three chances to guess at who's been ordered to "accompany" her. lol.

“I wasn’t sure what was worse: being oblivious or living within reality.”

\- Shannon A. Thompson, _Minutes Before Sunset_

**Brief Interlude.**

Of course, that wasn’t the end of it.

No, far from it. In fact, that had only been the beginning.

Mallory should probably have seen the signs, but at the time, she’d been so preoccupied with her own life, with work and school and impossible dreams, that she hadn’t had the time to notice.

She’d always criticized the heroes in movies for not noticing danger until it had shredded them to bits. Well, now it was _her_ turn to be criticized for the same fault…

… only this wasn’t a movie. And she wasn’t so sure she was going to make it to the credits.

Not _intact_ , anyways.

She still couldn’t remember having gotten close enough to anyone else for them to paint her a traitor in someone else’s eyes. She’d never once stopped to really have a full conversation with _anyone_ who wasn’t the red-eyed devil or the blind, homeless (?) man.

Oh, and the Pet, but the _last_ thing she wanted to contemplate was that lying bitch of a dog.

(Not that it had ever _lied_ to her, but, oh, it hadn’t needed to use spoken words to deceive _her_.)

(Apparently, she was just that easy to take advantage of.)

The figure beside her was laughing, now, despite the fact that he didn’t have a mouth.

Probably laughing at _her_ for trusting the damn creature. _Come on, Mallory, they named it “the Pet”. You should’ve **known** better._ Yes, she should have, but just this once, she’d wanted to be wrong.

Oh, well.


	5. 02| Paranoia or Reality?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking back, she couldn't think of a single thing she'd missed. But maybe if she thought a little harder, she'd find it.
> 
> Or not.
> 
> Sometimes, it's just nice to think about simpler times. Because, you know, Mallory Wentz is a dead girl walking.

“Strange how paranoia can link up with reality now and then.”

\- Philip K. Dick, _A Scanner Darkly_

**6.**

Her hair was sticking to her forehead in clumps, and her breathing was labored, sheets clinging to her body like they’d been glued against her skin. She could hear the rain pounding the sidewalk outside (as well as the streets), and Mallory found herself wondering, for the third time that night, what had woken her.

There was a shudder just barely creeping its way across her spine. She squinted into the shadows, but couldn’t register anything besides the fact that it was _very_ _dark_ in her room, and that she couldn’t remember turning off the lamp on her bedside table.

She tried to shift so that she would be facing her bedroom windows, and maybe to pull the sheets over her face so that, even if she closed her eyes, her mind wouldn’t be so vividly aware of the blinding darkness in her room. But she couldn’t move.

It was at that moment, muzzy with exhaustion, that she realized she wasn’t alone in her room.

Panic gripped her heart, but she still couldn’t move, and _fuck me why can’t I move?_

There was a shift of tension in the air, and the little pockets of darkness around her became _blacker_ , closer, _closer_ , as the shadows _moved_. And then, _a pair of eyes opened_ , as red as every photo she had ever seen of flares on the sun’s surface, and they blinked, **_slowly_**.

Groggily, she wondered if she was still asleep, and realized promptly that she wasn’t (because she had never been so _self-aware_ in any of her dreams). She considered screaming, but when she peered into the darkness, once more, blinking, trying to force herself to regain her bearings, the shadows were gone. And so were their red, red eyes.

***

Mallory found herself quivering, abruptly terrified, when she came to the sudden realization that she hadn’t been dreaming the night before. The mug of coffee clutched tightly in her right hand threatened to spill as she traced her eyes, again, and again, _and again_ , over the intricate lettering that the intruder had (brazenly) penned onto one of her unopened envelopes (one she’d left sitting on her kitchen counter the night before, having been too exhausted after a late night spent studying to really bother with opening any mail):

_We see you._

Short, simple, and sweet (er, probably not the _best_ word to use).

Of course, she had no idea who wrote it, or what they meant, or how the _fuck_ they got inside her house without her noticing (or even _hearing_ them come and go); what she _did_ know, though, was that maybe it was time to invest in a deadbolt.

 

**7.**

For once, the constant rain decided to take a hike; consequently, Mallory decided that maybe she could invest in a little exercise, herself. _Moderate jogging_ – nothing too difficult.

Of course, after a good fifteen (well, more like _eight_ ) minutes, she began to feel slightly out-of-breath, and so, she slowed down to more of a _stroll_. She peered up at the sky, and found herself daydreaming about snowflakes. It hadn’t snowed all winter; they were coming up on _March_ , now, and still not a single _drop_ of atmospheric vapor-crystals.

She supposed she couldn’t exactly complain. The weather was miserable enough without a drizzle, and knowing her luck, that’s _exactly_ what it would be, if the sky decided to “bless” them with snow; no snowstorm (or, in other words, an excuse to miss class and stay at home in her pajamas), but **_certainly_** an _all-you-can-hate_ drizzle-fest.

Mallory huffed, grimacing after catching a glimpse of herself in the window of a parked car. She looked like _Hell_ ; ever since Tuesday night, she’d been sleeping fitfully – awaking drenched in sweat at all hours of the night, and nursing inconsolable paranoia. She still hadn’t managed to come up with a viable answer for whom could have possibly snuck into her house to leave her such a creepy message, or _why_. She’d already installed three extra locks into her front door, and, every night, like clockwork, she ensured ( _once, twice, thrice_ ) that the windows were inaccessible, too, but it was almost like it didn’t _matter_.

She had gotten maybe three or four hours of sleep the previous night, _tops_.

(Mallory supposed that she was _lucky_ that she wouldn’t be called in for work, anytime soon.)

(Then, she remembered about the corpse, and changed her mind.)

At that moment, the (now constant) paranoia chose to slam into her face, at full speed (as per usual, lately). She threw a stray glance over her shoulder, but spotted nothing out of the ordinary. Then, she stumbled (on an uneven clump of grass, or maybe a miniature pile of rocks), and flailed, hands making contact with a smooth metal railing moments before she bit her own tongue on her descent down into the earth.

Swearing under her breath, she climbed back to her feet, picking the grass out of her (now-dirtied) sweatpants, and re-adjusted her glasses – and then, she froze.

Fear crawled up her spine like an unwelcome pest. She blinked, several times, to clear her head.

 _Nope, still here_ , she told herself after realizing that it wasn’t a delusion, or a figment of her imagination ( _probably_ ). She hadn’t grabbed _a_ _metal railing_ on her way down – it had been the arms of a chair which had(n’t) slowed her fall.

More specifically, the arms of an _electric_ chair. The same one on the news, the same one she’d seen several times prior, and the same one that haunted some of her nightmares. Terror clamped her mouth shut, but she _did_ manage to stumble away, throwing stray glances over her shoulders (trying to ensure that it had stayed put) as she went. If she hadn’t seen the news, she might not have been so afraid – after all, it wasn’t as if the chair, _itself_ , could cause her harm – not without strapping her in, first. But she _had_ seen the report, and so she suspected that whomever owned it must be nearby, waiting for the perfect victim, and she **_refused_** to be the next corpse on an evening newscast.

Of course, because she wasn’t really paying attention to her surroundings (her vision had tunneled; all she really cared about was putting some distance between herself and that _damn chair_ ), when she staggered onto the walkway of a local park, she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there.

No matter. She wasn’t alone, anymore. A group of joggers (young, probably college students) passed her by, a few giving her strange looks. She supposed her expression must have betrayed her trepidation. She finally allowed herself to slow down, eventually coming to a complete stop, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

 _You really need to get a grip_ , she scolded herself.

“Nothing like a little fear to get the heart racing.”

She was certain that if she had turned her head any faster, she might’ve given herself whiplash.

“What?” she wheezed.

The speaker was a man, sitting alone on a bench.

She couldn’t see his eyes behind his glasses, but as much as she didn’t like the look he was giving her (one filled with a sickening mirth), she suspected that he wasn’t _really_ much of a threat.

(She _hoped_ that she wasn’t wrong.)

In any case, he wasn’t _entirely_ alone. While one of his hands rested along one of the bench’s arms, the other stroked and caressed along the fussy mane of … _“the Pet”_ (as the taller man had called him). She was so surprised by the sight of the creature that she didn’t immediately register that the strange man had responded, not until his expression twisted into one of vexation.

“I know you’re still there. I can hear you breathing, you know?”

(He could… _what?_ Wasn’t he, like, _fifteen feet_ _away?_ )

“Um… is he… is he _yours_?”

He didn’t seem very willing to respond, but he _did_ scratch behind the creature’s ears.

She tried not to stare, but it was nearly impossible. (Plus, she didn’t think it would really matter, no matter how _rude_ the gesture was.) For crying out loud, here was this random, out-of-the-blue, creepy stranger, petting the red-eyed _Hellhound_ like it was some kind of harmless puppy.

(Her life just kept getting _curiouser_ and _curiouser_.)

“You reek of fear. And of guilt. Most curious, for someone who shouldn’t know who I am.”

(She had _no idea_ what he was talking about.)

(But decided it wouldn’t make any kind of difference, even if she _did_ argue back.)

(What was some crazy, blind (?), homeless (?) man gonna do to her?)

“Is that thing yours?” she insisted, instead, choosing to ignore his subtle accusation.

(Of _what_ , she didn’t know.)

“He belongs to all of us. But,” he grinned, now, a sight she wasn’t so sure she _ever_ wanted to experience, again, “you probably already knew that.”

(She hadn’t; isn’t that why people asked questions? Because they _didn’t_ know the answer?)

(It’s like he was trying to imply that she was a liar. Which she _was_ , but that wasn’t the point.)

“I’ll, um, I’ll just be going, now.”

And that was exactly what she tried to do, forehead creased in confusion and apprehension.

Halfway home, though, she heard the telltale pitter-pattering of paws on cement, and turned just in time to lay eyes on the red-eyed creature (dog?) as it kept pace with her at a light trot.

She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. If that man was really homeless, then that meant that this creature was a street dog (having been said to belong to “all of us”, which presumably meant that his sanctuaries were _fleeting_ , at best). However, she wasn’t really sure whether she could provide for it what it expected of her.

(A home?)

(Food?)

(A drink?)

(Care and comfort?)

(That man seemed _awfully willing_ to provide at least all of the above.)

“What are you doing?” she asked no one in particular, or _herself_ , even as she approached him to run her fingers through his matted fur. Her brain’s reasonable protests didn’t stop her from letting him follow her home.

Or from inviting him inside and letting him take a little romp through her house.

Or from feeding him some of the extra chicken that she had cooked for herself (or for him – she never ate much, to begin with, so she suspected that she must have _known_ that food would wind up in the creature’s belly instead of hers).

They didn’t even prevent her from curling up with the creature on her couch as she turned on the television in the evening, or from waking up in the middle of the night with a pounding headache just to give him some water.

(Not that he drank any of it. In fact, he seemed particularly _agitated_ , whimpering and whining as he rolled along the kitchen floor, and she wondered if maybe it was a good idea to buy some dog food to prevent him from getting an upset stomach, in the future.)

The last coherent thought she could remember having before falling asleep with her arms wrapped around the red-eyed Hellhound (dog?) (of whom had settled down into a contented purr) was: “There is no way **_in Hell_** that I am calling him _the Pet_.”

 

**8.**

“Sit.”

…

The creature tilted its head, and did not sit.

She heaved a long, weary sigh, in response.

“I should probably name you first, huh?”

Its head tilted to the other side, now, and then it stretched its hind legs out, tongue lolling out through the side of its open mouth. She, on the other hand, chose that moment to plop down onto the carpet beside it, fingers snagging through clumps of matted hair as she offered the creature a sparing caress.

It held up its own mouth and howled, long and hard, and she was momentarily startled, thinking that she had caused it pain or angered the creature, but instead of bounding away (or, perhaps, _tearing her apart_ , like it had not-so-long-ago to that defenseless hunk of meat), it tucked itself into her side, producing a yipping sound (or, perhaps, _a_ _whimper_ ), and settled down with its chin balanced on both front paws.

She could hardly resist the way that her heart swelled, and decided to attempt to rename it another time, when she could, perhaps, think of a more-fitting title. For now, she didn’t want anything to ruin the moment, and so, she pushed the task to the back of her mind, and settled in, herself, beside the already-unconscious creature.

It was hours later when she moved to her bed, berating herself angrily as she gripped at her waist with her non-aching hand, favoring her left hip. She didn’t have the heart to turn the creature away when it followed close behind, whimpering and nudging at her thigh with the round of its nose (almost as if it could sense her discomfort (and perhaps it _could_?)).

And if she felt like she wasn’t entirely alone that night, she chalked it up to the fact that she _wasn’t_. And decided it would be better not to look too deeply into the abysmal paranoia, beyond that matter-of-fact (denying ( _lying_ )) analysis.

(After all, “if thou gaze long into an abyss,” as it was famously said by Nietzsche, “the abyss will also gaze into thee.”)

***

She couldn’t remember if that was actually how it was said, looking back.

But honestly? She wasn’t a poet, or a scholar of literature and philosophy, so it hardly mattered whether she was quoting him verbatim, or not. The only person who would probably care enough to notice was probably Nietzsche, himself.

(Or, perhaps, _the red-eyed devil_. Whom had taken, surprisingly enough, to quoting cultured literature and poetry that she didn’t believe a thug had any business knowing about.)

***

“Damien…?”

The creature tilted its head, almost playfully, tongue lolling out through the side of its opened mouth (as it took to doing, quite often).

“You’re horrifying, but you’re no _Damien_ ,” she agreed, although the part of her that was a fan of classic horror movies wilted. If this creature did not embody the moniker of “Damien,” then perhaps nothing _ever_ would.

“Salem?” she attempted.

Its nose was promptly planted along the curve of her knees; it rooted for a moment or two, seeking out the warmth of her hand, and when she (at last) traced a finger along the (nasty) scar hiding behind its right ear, it was mollified from its previous whining and whimpering, and settled, with eyes open and staring into hers, into place, directly before her.

“I suppose not,” she dismissed that idea, as well, heavy-hearted. (It would have been a wonderfully-fitting name for such an uncanny creature of unknown origin. _Burn the witch_ , indeed.)

Whatever was she was planning on suggesting next crumbled away in her throat when it lifted its head to offer a swipe of its long tongue, almost gently ( _comforting_ (having sensed her frustration)), along the expanse of the flat of her palm (not the one she’d used to pet him).

She couldn’t help it; her heart finished melting, then, and she knew she loved this creature, as fiercely as she had _never_ loved anything or anyone else, and that she would fight tooth and nail to keep it (him (her?)) safe.

“ _Who’s a good boy_?” she cooed at it, taking its face fully into her hands, and its tail thumped against the ground, as enthusiastically as the yipping sound the creature released shortly before tackling her to the ground and smothering her in its canine (?) version of a kiss (or _several_ ).

“I love you, too,” she laughed, and actually _meant_ it.

***

The creature didn’t like to be touched on or around its collar.

She’d learned that the hard way a few times on a walk or romp around the neighborhood. She’d never meant to frighten it, but apparently, its memories concerning that article of attire were not _pleasant_.

Of course, this fact made the current situation that much more difficult to handle.

It had somehow managed to wedge its head firmly between the bars of a bench’s legs, and now, although she was fully aware of the aversion it held towards any sort of personal contact with its collar, the only way to release the _poor stupid_ creature from its personally-reaped “trap” was to slip it out of its heavy-duty, metallic collar.

(Speaking of, she briefly found herself wondering how it could bear such a weight, especially considering the roughness of the material (of which she had never seen or heard of) – but then, she reminded herself that this creature was roughly four feet tall, _on all fours_ , and that it weighed **_slightly_** more than the average dog, and that was enough of _that_ concern.)

( _For now._ )

So, she tried to make a game of it, hoping that it would, perhaps, be distracted long enough for her to slip it out of its predicament without necessarily having to fear losing a finger in the process (or her whole _hand_ ).

“Here, sweetie, here,” she dug through her bag, searching for something, _anything_ , to call the creature’s attention away from its current predicament. And found it, in the form of a laser pen.

(Or ‘laser pointer’. _Whatever_ it was that people called them.)

She pressed the flat of her thumb against the button, alongside the length of the pen, and its red eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the movement of the _mysterious red dot_ a mere nanosecond after it appeared. Along with that, its body stilled, not even a single twitch escaping its iron-clad self-control – she found herself feeling both _very much impressed_ and _very much spooked_.

( _Could you imagine if that thing was focused on a moving target? And after what I saw it do to that wing…_ _I’d hate to be on the **receiving** end of those razor-sharp teeth._ )

(And how did its teeth even _get_ so sharp?)

(She had seen other dogs before, even owned one or two herself, and there was _no way_ that was normal, no matter _what_ breed it was.)

(If it was even a “dog”, as she’d so readily assumed (up until now, apparently)).

She kept the _mysterious red dot_ pointed opposite from herself, and it kept its head pointed that way, as well, giving her clear access to its collar. She inched closer, slowly, _slowly_ , and her finger slipped off the button. The light blinked, and just as she was reaching for its collar, the creature was gone. She’d blinked. That’s _all_ she’d done.

It was halfway down the street before she’d realized what had happened.

Collar still buckled securely.

She might have felt frustrated if her plan hadn’t (somehow) worked out in her favor. It was “free” – even if it wasn’t, _technically_ , free. That was good enough.

_For now._

***

“You know, this wouldn’t have happened if you had just listened,” she murmured, crestfallen, face in her hands as she eyed the mess of dirt, shredded leaves, and crumpled flowers. She wanted to cry, or punch something, or wrap the _damn dog_ (?) up in duct tape to, probably, punish him (?).

Instead, however, she watched him strut through the mess he’d made, almost proudly, as if to say _look at what I did, isn’t it great?_ , and she accepted defeat.

Its name was going to stay “the Pet”.

(For the sake of preserving her precious (few) belongings.)

“C’mere, boy,” she called out, and it did so, tail wagging so hard its whole body vibrated as she laid a hand against its wet nose. That was strange. Its eyes were no longer red.

Instead, they were a placid green (yellow (?)). How was that… **_possible_**?

She’d heard of grey eyes looking blue or green under different lighting, but how could red _possibly_ become green? (How were red eyes even an _option_ , either, now that she was questioning the Pet’s appearance?)

(It was sickening how easily “the Pet” was absorbed into her every-day vocabulary.)

(She chose not to linger. Or tried, anyway. (And failed _miserably_.))

“Is that a new trick?” she asked no one in particular.

(And expected no response.)

“Okay, look,” she bargained, kneeling before the Pet and allowing him to lay his paws along the curve of her knees. “I’m running on empty, here, but since you’ve **_clearly_** got a lot of energy to burn, I’m going to take you for a short walk. I should’ve known keeping you inside was a mistake. You’re not a _house-trained_ pet, are you?”

It didn’t respond. (For obvious reasons.) Not verbally, anyway.

It shoved its nose into her stomach, and for a _very quick_ moment, she was terrified that the wetness of her blouse came from his teeth. When she peered down at him, she saw that he was attempting to lick at her, perhaps to comfort her (assuming it could sense her distress), or perhaps just to display his affection for her (being that it was such a _trusting_ , _friendly_ creature – for, _you know_ , a red-eyed (??) Hellhound (?)). Whatever the reason, she noticed that its tongue was barbed, like a cat’s.

( _Odd_ , for a dog (?).)

Another reason to second-guess herself.

Nonetheless, she got up, after pushing its paws away (playfully ( _odd_ , for her)), and gestured forward. It began to trot further ahead, peering back at her every-so-often (perhaps to reassure itself that she hadn’t left, or fallen too far behind), and she would pause only in her careful deliberations (of its species, of its ( _godforsaken_ ) name, of its uncanny appearance and speed and diligent self-discipline, of its (startlingly advanced) prey drive) to offer a wave of the hand to said creature (or to call out to it to slow down, which it always did, very obediently).

With all its traits, whomever had originally owned it probably had no idea what breed of dog it was (or if it even _was_ a dog), hence, the name “the Pet”. A _clever_ name, albeit a _cruel_ one.

(Robbing a living being of its inherent (?) right to be classified.)

Despite her own reservations, she found that the name fit, unfortunately.

(Even if she had her suspicions that whomever had named it had never exactly spoken its name to the creature, itself. It seemed to be more of a manner of reference to the dog (?), when in sentient conversation with others (friends (?), companions (?), strangers (?)).

And since the creature appeared to be accustomed to responding to it (or not being called by its “name”, at all), she couldn’t find it within herself to rob the poor thing of this much comfort (at the very least – even if she had, unofficially, kidnapped it (dog-napped (?))).

And so, “the Pet” it would stay.

***

(Or, so, that’s what she told herself later that night, to make herself feel better about not putting in very much effort to provide it with a “proper” name.)

But, she digressed.

 

**9.**

She wasn’t sure what had originally attracted her attention about it – the kiosk wasn’t anything special, or extraordinary. There were packets of dry canine food, canned feline ‘gourmet meals’, and buckets of seeds, in varying sizes (probably for the sake of feeding a pet bird).

However, now that she was looking at it, studying the much-advertised (and, supposedly, “much-loved”) ‘tether tug dog toy’, she took notice of a stack of pamphlets beside a guidance booklet on bathing cats: “From free-ranging mutt to man’s best friend: How to Re-Socialize Your Once-Stray Companion.”

Mallory found herself wondering whether it was possible to re-socialize a verifiable Hellhound with an unnatural “set of skills” (in the words of _Liam Neeson_ ), and then, shrugged off the temptation to find out. It was better, for her own safety (and for the inherent right of the free spirit that “the Pet” evidently was to be, _well_ , a free spirit), to leave things as they were.

The Pet had caused her no unforgivable damage (thus far), and the messes it had made were just that – messes. Nothing serious enough to warrant a need to change who he (?) was.

(Or “re-socialize” him, in the sugar-coated words of the pamphlet.)

(Where did people get off on telling strangers what to do about their pets’ behaviors, anyways?)

She was eyeing the small display of ‘tether tug’ devices once again when she realized that she was going to be late for class if she didn’t get going soon. But…

The Pet had been so well-behaved, so kind and gentle and loving and attentive (everything she had ever _suspected_ she needed in her life, but never _dared_ to ask for), that it would be almost _cruel_ of her to ignore its own needs. The poor thing was so full of energy, _brimming_ with enthusiasm, and she spent so much of her time outside of the house (running errands, attending class, (formerly) working, etc…) that it had almost _nothing else_ to do but run laps through her home and/or nap in her living room (on the couch (or upstairs, on her bed)) for at least 5-8 hours of the day.

The least she could do was get him something to keep himself preoccupied with for 3+ hours of the time it spent alone and (otherwise) bored. Planning on doing just that, she checked the price of the toy (about $60, give or take), and decided that, for the size of the dog (creature (?)), it wasn’t so bad (or so _pricey_ (even though she would **_definitely_** feel the dent in her pocket, by the end of the week)).

She rooted through her bag, searching for her wallet, and turned to ask for the product, only to nearly collide into a (n inhumanely) hard, brick wall. No, _not_ brick wall. (There’d been no walls nearby, or else it would have cut the kiosk in half; she’d have _noticed_ that.)

A man. The same blind (?) and homeless (?) man from before.

“Shopping for the Pet?” was his idea of ‘pleasantries’.

“I, um, _yes_.” She eyed him warily, thinking about ducking out of the store and just forgetting about the damned piece of ( _expensive_ ) rope. He’d be none the wiser, right?

( _Well, at the very least, it’s not like he can **stop** me. Not by himself._ )

“That’s so kind of you,” he was grinning like he knew something she didn’t.

(She wasn’t about to go questioning her intuition on that. For all she knew, the last five months had been an elaborate prank, or a cruel joke, or… _who even knew_ , but it sure as hell wasn’t the norm. Not for _her_ , anyways. _Nothing ever happens to me_ , she wanted to accuse (as if it was, somehow, _his_ fault that her life was really starting to suck (and that it _always_ had)).)

“No. It’s _human_ of me.” She turned, and asked the vendor for the rope toy, sliding three twenties and a five across the counter before she could change her mind. She shoved the toy into her bag, meaning to pocket her change along the way (to Campus), but the stranger’s grip was iron-clad along her wrist, **_forcing_** her to face him, once again.

She felt (somewhat) comforted by the (inattentive) presence of the vendor, and of the crowd that was pushing its way around the two of them (paying them no mind (like they didn’t even fucking _exist_ )). She’d gotten exceptionally good at being overlooked during the too-many years of her life, it seemed (and this effect had only made itself known when she _really needed_ the opposite – **_typical_** ( _story of my life_ )).

“Do you want him back, or something?” she snapped, anxiety prickling along the ridges of her heart and sharpening her words. ( _As usual._ Her mouth was going to get her into a lot of trouble, one day.)

This received a tilt of his head (which she found not-at-all-cute, and totally-fucking-creepy), and an ominous-as-all-Hell response, “He’ll return when we’re finished, or whenever we need him to. Whichever comes first.”

“ _O—kay_. So, is that your blessing, then?” her nails dug into the palm of her free hand, and she resisted the urge (not knowing why) to swing her bag around and clock him in the side of the head (and promptly make a run for it (she had the _strangest feeling_ that it wouldn’t do her any favors)).

“I wouldn’t get too comfortable if I were you,” he said, with another of his questionably-creepy grins. “The Pet’s loyalty isn’t easily bought.”

“I’ll, uh, keep that in mind,” she was eyeing the shifting crowd around them, wondering why she was feeling so paranoid when she wasn’t even alone (and then wondering if the paranoia was _because_ she wasn’t alone), and also mentally questioning the urge to spit out the word _freak_ at him (like she had some kind of death-wish (like a blind (?) man could even do anything to make her hold her tongue (?))). “Can you _maybe_ let me go? I think you’re cutting off my blood flow.”

He giggled (what the hell was even so funny (and why was a grown-ass man _giggling_?)?), but released her, to her relief. She resisted the urge to rub at her sore wrist (wondering if he would even notice the display of weakness (and also asking herself _why_ she kept assuming that he was blind)), instead choosing to busy her hands with gripping at her bag (and her spare change – she couldn’t exactly _afford_ to start throwing her money away).

He dug into his coat pocket, producing forth a metal contraption, purple in hue. With a press of his finger (to some invisible button), the device unfolded into some kind of high-tech, admittedly-impressive length of rope (a leash?). He then folded the device back up, almost as if meaning to show her how to use it (even though she’d still struggle with it, later (because that was _one hell_ of a fucking leash (?))), and then shoved it through the opening of her bag.

“Keep it safe for us?” he phrased it like a question, with another of those head-tilts (that she found she was quickly becoming accustomed to).

“Um, _sure_.”

He peered around, over his shoulders, and she found herself questioning her assumption about his sense of vision (or lack-thereof) – of course, he didn’t exactly give her time to ask (not that she was _going_ to (she might not have been “raised right”, but she still knew better than to ask about a stranger’s potential handicap (?))). He leaned in close, almost as if to tell her a secret, and asked, voice softer, a near-mumble, “Keep him safe for me?”

She mentally noted the difference in word-choice, and questioned why he felt like he had to whisper such an innocent-sounding question. (And promptly decided that it was probably better not to ask. Whatever problems he was having with accepting his own sense of compassion was _his_ problem, not hers.)

“Of course.” She didn’t stick around long after that, astonished and creeped-out and confused, and after bidding him a quick, “See you around, _I guess_ ,” (which she _desperately_ hoped wasn’t true (and found herself cursing her own vocabulary for, after he’d responded with, “ ** _You will_** ,”)), she turned her back on the man, hurrying away as she hefted her bag over her shoulder and dropped the coins into a spare pocket.

_So much for a “quiet”, “uneventful” afternoon._

 

**10.**

Maybe it was time for Mallory to invest in dog food.

 _Proper_ dog food.

(As in, canned.)

(The _good_ stuff.)

Even though she would **_definitely_** feel the dent in her pockets come the end of the month ( _every_ month), she figured it would be worth it if it meant that the Pet (poor thing that it was) would stop being subjected to these _horrible_ aches every time he ate.

(Even though it didn’t make sense that he did, because _wasn’t_ he a dog?)

(Maybe he just had a sensitive stomach…?)

(He _was_ a street dog, after all. Maybe he just wasn’t _accustomed_ to dry dog food…?)

(Maybe he was accustomed to chasing down his meals…? (Thrill of the chase, and all that.))

(He’d seemed perfectly content to fetch the wing she’d thrown him ( ** _months_** ago), but she hadn’t seen his reaction hours later. Maybe _that’s_ what his howling was about – pain, discomfort. (Maybe _that’s_ what it’d been back then, too, when he’d stayed outside her home, howling throughout the night.))

(Of course, she didn’t particularly think that his previous owners must’ve been very _concerned_ , so to speak. Save for maybe that blind (?) man, the only other person she’d met (?) who’d appeared to be well-acquainted with “the Pet” hadn’t exactly struck her as the “compassionate” type.)

( _Gee, I wonder what gave me_ that _idea._ )

She watched the Pet roll over onto its back, whimpering, and felt a pang of sympathy in her heart. _Yep – time for an upgrade._

***

No, not _that_ one, either.

So far, nothing had worked. Mallory had brought every known dog food brand (barely scraping by to feed _herself_ , as a result), but it was like it didn’t even matter how fancy or expensive or well-made the food was. The Pet always seemed just fine at meal time, but, sure enough, without fail, his howling would keep her up throughout the night.

It _had_ to be indigestion. He seemed perfectly healthy, otherwise – she doubted an upset stomach would be the only symptom if it’d been something much _worse_. And even if it was, she didn’t have the funds to take him to the vet.

(Plus, something in her hesitated at the thought. Sure, **_she_** was _fucked-in-the-head_ enough to accept the Pet’s curious ( _to put it lightly_ ) appearance (eye-color-wise) and horrifying prey drive, but there was no telling what would happen if she were to consult _someone else_ on the matter. She had a feeling that “indigestion” (?) would be the _least_ of her problems if she took the Pet to a professional.)

She was running out of options. There weren’t many dog brands out there, and she didn’t really know where to turn to, next. Sure, she _could_ try researching the Pet’s breed (if he even _was_ a dog (or researching **_that_** , instead)), but who was to say that the Pet would be _alive_ long enough for her to solve this enigmatic problem?

(If this was a symptom of something worse.)

(And even if it wasn’t, could indigestion **_kill_** living beings?)

(She’d never heard of anyone _dying_ from it, but there was a first for everything, wasn’t there?)

Of course, there was another, final, last-resort solution: letting him go free.

He’d seemed fine on the streets, with his previous owner (s (?)), so maybe _whatever_ they were doing, they were doing it _right_. If she didn’t want him to die, she might have no choice, in the end, no matter _how_ she felt about it (or about his owner (s)).

He lifted his head, as if he could tell she was thinking about him (and maybe he _could_ (maybe her body language was just _that_ obvious)), and she was overcome with sadness, a momentary grief, as she peered into those placid green eyes of his.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’ll fix this. No matter _what_ I have to do, you’ll be okay.”

She placed the flat of her palm along his muzzle, and he made a soft noise (a whine (another yip)?), settling (miserably) at her feet, chin balancing along the curves of her (dirty) sneakers.

“You’ll be okay,” she repeated, more to herself than to him – and _that_ time, she almost believed herself. **_Almost._**

***

“Thank you,” she sure hoped the gratitude was evident in her eyes. She was too exhausted to put up much more effort beyond a shake of his hand. The man in question placed his own hand (the free one (the one _not_ nearly crushed by hers, in her state of desperation)) along the expanse of her upper back.

“No need to thank me, Mal. It’s actually kinda sweet, you know?”

“What is, _my desperation_? You’re a sick man,” she managed to catch herself mid-smile.

(She didn’t want him to think that she was kidding. (Even though she _was_.))

Of course, he’d already noticed. “No,” he laughed, lifting both hands, palms flat and forward-facing, in a placating gesture. “The fact that you care enough to ask for help. You’ve _always_ been a loner, Mal – don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Your point?”

“My point? I had a point?” he snorted with laughter, once more (prompted by her half-hearted glare). “I just think it’s sweet of you to go out of your comfort zone to help out a friend. Never pegged you for a dog person.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

She decided not to say any more, beyond that. He got the hint, and, thankfully, decided not to pry. “How do you wanna play this? You want me to drop by _your_ place, or should we meet up somewhere else?”

“The parking lot is just fine,” she answered, stiffly. She didn’t like the idea of a near-stranger (especially one who seemed to know more about _her_ than _she_ did about _him_ ) knowing where she lived. Or stepping foot inside. Not even on her porch.

(If she _had_ a porch.)

“Of campus? Alright. Makes my job a lot easier,” he conceded. She adjusted her glasses along the bridge of her nose, and peered up at him through the (misty) lenses. ( _Damn rain_ , she grumbled.)

“Thanks. **_Really._** I owe you one.”

“ _Hell yeah_ , you do,” he laughed; another joke.

( _Or was it?_ )

“Alright,” he clapped her (firmly) along her (hunched) back. “Thanks for the escort, babe, but this is me.” He pointed out a sleek, silver-painted muscle car. (She briefly wondered _how_ on _Earth_ he managed to keep it so “clean”, knowing what she did about his “hobbies”.)

She supposed she must’ve let it slip, too, because he was laughing at her, once again, as he headed the long way around his ( _admittedly sweet_ ) ride. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

Mallory decided she’d had enough of “Kurt Krämer” in one day to last her seventeen lifetimes, and so, she turned her back on his boisterous laughter (hiding a quickly-fading smile of her own), and made up her mind to call him later to confirm her “request” (of which she wouldn’t disclose to _anyone else_ – not unless he failed).

Fifteen seconds later (approximately), she came to an abrupt stop.

Why was there a police officer staking out the parking lot? And why was he literally _five inches_ away from her car (looking like he was expecting it to get up and walk away, at any second)?

The sirens were silent, and the lights weren’t flashing, but he was still standing there, in full uniform, checking out her car as if she might be hiding an AK-47 underneath the backseats, and she couldn’t help the anxiety bubbling in her gut.

Even though she was innocent, and really hadn’t done anything to deserve this (nonsensical) wave of guilt, fear, and paranoia. Of course, because that’s what she was _good_ _at_ , Mallory disguised her discomfort behind indignation. “Can I help you?”

The officer turned, unimpressed expression _astonishingly_ infuriating (because who gave him the right to look at her like she was some kind of petulant child when _he_ was the one poking around in her business without her consent (or a warrant (assuming he _had_ none))), and took his sweet time in approaching her (as if she were some kind of wild animal on the verge of unnecessary assault).

She promptly resisted the urge to flip him the bird and tell him what he could do with his misplaced superiority complex. “Are you the owner of this vehicle?”

“ _Yes_ , actually. I _am_. Who wants to know?”

“What is your name?” he (wisely) chose to ignore her snark.

“That’s going to cost you.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s going to cost you,” she repeated, fingers perched on her hips.

The _last_ thing she wanted to do was to act like a menstruating teenage girl, but **_goddamnit_** , if he was going to use that tone of voice with her, like he barely had the time of day to give to her (as she was **_owed_** , under these circumstances), then he could _get bent_.

“Oh, really?”

“ _Yep_ ,” she popped the “p” (like a child (and was just as _shameless_ in her ill-derived satisfaction)). “And you can start with a warrant. Until then, we’re done here.”

He made no move to stop her, or to protest, but he did watch her, _very closely_ , as she slid into the driver’s seat, tossing her bag into the back (over her shoulder), and started the ignition.

And she could _swear_ that he’d gritted his teeth when she sped away, very-purposefully “forgetting” to strap herself in.

She had a lonely “dog” to get back home to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second-to-last flashback portions: officially done. We're nearly there.
> 
> Also, I really hope Mallory is growing on you guys. Because, you know, I'm going to destroy her.
> 
> (lol, jk.)
> 
> (Or am I?)


	6. 02.2| Mallory's Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything was so fucked.
> 
> There was no way she was getting out of this. And now, she only had an empty, meaningless rest-of-the-life to look forward to. At least there was one small consolation: it wouldn't last long.

“Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.”

\- Murphy's Law

**Brief Interlude.**

No matter which angle she looked at her situation from, the results were still the same: she was **_fucked_**.

She’d wasted so much time _caring_ about that incorrigible Hellhound that she hadn’t really stopped to think that maybe the blind (?) man’s ( _creepy, warning, threatening_ ) words **_shouldn’t_** have been the least of her concerns.

She felt the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, once again, for the thousandth time that night. (And probably not for the _last_.) She knew what she’d said, but she wasn’t so sure she’d really be able to go through with it.

Even if she _did_ find whomever had “set her up” (assuming the red-eyed devil and his entourage of lunatics weren’t just that – _delusional lunatics_ ), would she **_really_** be able to throw them under the ( _painful, horrifying, nightmare-inducing_ ) bus like that?

She already knew the answer _long_ before she’d asked the question, and despite the raw terror that it invoked in her, despite the fact that it forced her to face the very-real possibility that she was going to die in _fifty-shades-of-pain_ (assuming these guys were the same freaks who’d been stalking her for months-on-end (and there was no reason that conclusion would be “unreasonable”, all things considered)), she couldn’t help feeling relieved.

She might have been _a lot_ of things, Mallory Wentz, but at least she wasn’t _cruel_.

(One last victory before the end, she supposed.)

And now – to return to a creature she could no longer trust, at a home she would never again feel safe in, with a murderous lunatic who would sooner _suffocate_ her in her own sleep than allow the red-eyed devil to humor her in her (pathetic) attempts to prolong her own life.

(If he dared _disobey_ him, that was (and she wasn’t exactly willing to bet her _life_ on a stranger’s _loyalty_ ).)

 _Fuck my life_ , she agonized; and for the thousandth time in her sad, pathetic life, really **_meant_** it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe you've noticed, but Mallory is the most pessimistic little shit ever.
> 
> I mean, in her situation, I would be, too. (Not that I'm very optimistic, to begin with. lol.)
> 
> One more round of flashbacks to go, and then, we'll be all caught up with the present, and we'll be able to move forward.
> 
> Aren't you all excited to see how her story plays out? (At least pretend you are. lol.)


	7. 03| the Only Thing to Fear is Other People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The harder she thought about it, the more she realized that she had made so many mistakes, made so many stupid, little errors that could've been avoided, that could've helped keep her from this horrifying, unfamiliar fate.
> 
> But, at the same time, how could she have known? Everything had been a little out-of-the-ordinary, yes, but how could she possibly know that it would escalate to... this? She couldn't believe it.
> 
> She couldn't believe what some people were capable of. And what made it worse was that the one "person" she'd believed in the most had let her down the hardest -- by worming its way into her heart, "knowing" what it did.
> 
> And she didn't even have the heart to blame anyone but herself. 
> 
> But it had been great, for a little while, hadn't it? Things had just begun to look up, and for a minute, there, she'd really been "happy", hadn't she?
> 
> Maybe that was the biggest error of all: daring to believe that things were going to get better.
> 
> Because she should have known better. "Nothing ever does."

“There is always danger for those who are afraid.”

\- George Bernard Shaw

**11.**

It was difficult keeping the door (half-)open with just the toe of her sneaker, but she (somehow) managed.

( _Not._ )

(The door had eventually slammed (nearly) shut on her fingers once she’d tried to catch it mid-close. She was currently _attempting_ to clean up the mess she’d (accidentally) made, _failing miserably,_ and cursing her own rotten luck under her breath (like some kind of petulant child who’d been sent away to their room).)

(So, business as usual.)

Her fingers were throbbing, but she didn’t really have time to inspect the damage. She had to put away the groceries, start dinner, sort through her belongings for pawn-able objects or keepsakes (and hope to God-or-whatever-was-out-there-mocking-her-like-it-was-a-sport (as they’d been doing for _most_ of her (pitiful) life) that it would be enough to help her pay the electricity (the cable would have to _go_ – she simply _couldn’t_ manage it, not with all the recently-added living costs she had to deal with)), feed “the Pet”, take it out for a walk, finish working on an essay due that very same week ( _thank-the-stars_ she’d begun it early)…

It was going to be a _very long_ day, and a **_longer_** week.

(And a _horrendously_ -drawn-out month.)

(Yearly prospects? **_Nightmare fuel_**.)

“Nothing is okay, and life sucks, and it isn't going to get any easier,” she quoted, uncertain of where she’d heard it, and laughed, a quiet and weak and sad sound. No, a _defeated_ sound. (One she was _intimately_ _familiar_ with, unfortunately.)

A firm nudge from a cold, wet nose forced her to abandon her ( _quickly-souring_ ) pity-party, in favor of offering an apologetic look to the owner of said nose. The Pet didn’t appear interested in ransacking her newly-purchased groceries (which struck her as odd, considering that every dog or cat (or _animal_ , in general) she’d ever met wouldn’t have wasted **_any_** time in tearing those bags apart (or, at the very least, sizing them up)), pressing its nose into the palm of her outstretched hand in a desperate attempt to… to _what_? Cheer her up? Get her attention?

If she didn’t know any better (and she probably didn’t know _anything_ , to begin with), she’d assume that his tentative glances over her bowed head, at her kitchen (screened) door, meant something. ( _Fear? Anxiety? Concern? Warning?_ )

Nonetheless, she decided to discard the thought (because she didn’t have time to linger on it (or on her growing paranoia)), and with a gentle push against the curve of his forehead (her way of saying “ _excuse me_ ”), she began transferring the brown paper bags to her pantry.

His green eyes never left the door, but she didn’t **_dare_** say anything else.

Not when she could feel the invisible force of (someone’s (some _thing_ ’s)?) eyes piercing the back of her head.

(And not when she knew ( ** _just knew_** ) that it wasn’t the Pet.)

***

“Come here, boy,” she called out to him, and he came, obediently, all-too-willingly, looking for affection ( _and attention_ ). She was willing to offer it, as usual (because she, _too_ , was longing for the ( _warm, welcoming, sincere_ ) contact of another living being (as she had been her whole life, every time she looked up into cold, unreceptive eyes and whimpered; a snot-nosed child with no one to trust, no one to love, and no place to call home)), but she hadn’t called him over just for that.

(Although she didn’t mind.)

(Attention-starved, lonely, **_pathetic_** excuse for a human being that she was.)

“Hush, hush,” she laid the flat of her palm against its nose, and it stilled, accordingly.

(She ( _very briefly_ ) wondered whether this was a conditioned response (or whether it could actually understand her (and promptly dismissed the ridiculous notion – it was an _animal_ , hardly a “sentient being” capable of intricate thought)).)

“I’ve got something for you,” she forced herself to stray from those sorts of thoughts (the type that kept her up late at night, fretting over (imagined) omens and peering out from beneath her quilts (trembling, hesitant) at the monstrous creature curled up at the end of her bed (audibly purring like a harmless kitten)), and dug into her bag, the one she’d propped up against the length of the arm of her couch. Her finger brushed against the strap of that purple-metal-device, and she pulled it out. Or, _meant_ to – the harder she pulled, the more it resisted.

Befuddled (because, _really?_ was an _inanimate_ _rope_ **_really_** giving her that much trouble, _fucking_ **_really_**?), she reached in, grabbing a hand-full of chain (?), and re-began to tug, _harder_.

It gave way, and she found herself with a pounding head-ache and a mouth-full of chain.

(Er, _teeth_ -full.)

Speaking of… It burned as much as trying to eat (fully-formed) cubes of ice.

She spat the links of chain out, trying to rub the discomfort away ( _gently as possible_ ) as she (forcefully) blinked away the shock(ed tears) out of her eyes. “ ** _Goddamnit_** ,” she caught the look of concern in the creature’s ( _horrifyingly_ ) semi-intelligent face, and offered a sheepish laugh.

(One that didn’t even convince _herself_.)

“What? Did I _scare_ you? _You_ , with your big self?”

It turned its back on her, apparently recognizing a taunt when it heard one, and deciding that she wasn’t worth the trouble. She found herself apologizing before she could stop herself, and reaching out for the creature, beckoning him closer, even though _she_ was the one in _real_ pain.

“Come on – you’re right. _I’m sorry_. I’m just lousy at accepting comfort. ‘specially since people usually don’t _mean_ it,” she started to explain herself, and paused, wondering _what the Hell_ she was doing (because it wasn’t like the damn creature could _actually_ **_understand_** her), and, incidentally, allowing the creature ample time to sidle up to her, once more, and press its (cold) nose into the curve of her elbow.

(She couldn’t be too certain that this was a _good_ thing – wasn’t a cold nose a sign of deteriorating health in animals? (Did its systems work the same way? The Pet wasn’t exactly your “common” household dog. (She was fairly certain, by this point, that the Pet wasn’t even a **_dog_** , _to begin with_.)))

Instead of allowing herself to continue fretting about something she couldn't change (even though she _totally could_ (by taking it a vet, right? (although she didn't think that was a _good_ _idea_ , either))), she pulled it in closer, by wrapping her arms around its scruffy, lean body, and burying her face into a particularly rough patch of fur.

A few moments of silence followed, during which the creature whined, quietly, before sitting back on its haunches. It shifted, without warning, and she shot back, wrinkling her nose, after catching a whiff of an inexplicably terrible **_stench_**. "Okay, _that's it_ , buddy -- you need a bath. **_Desperately_**. I don't know _what_ that smell is, but it's killing me, here."

It whimpered, in response. She imagined that this was his version of, _"But, Mallory."_

"No buts," she interjected, accordingly, and got up, dusting off the knees of her jeans, as well as wiping her (now-stained (with some kind of blue... _chemical_? It had that peculiar, laboratory-chemical-mixture tinge (which probably only made the smell _worse_ (not to mention, **_why_** was he even covered in strange chemicals?))) palms off on the black of said jeans.

(Which she immediately regretted. Whatever it was left near-luminescent stains.)

" _Definitely needs a bath_ ," she muttered.

***

After a few minutes spent furiously rubbing at her hands with sanitizer (to no avail -- the smell, _unfortunately_ , lingered), she caught sight of the leash, once more.

(If it could be called a "leash".)

(It looked more like a cruel contraption meant to keep the poor thing **_prisoner_**.)

(... isn't that what a leash was, regardless?)

(At least that one _looked_ the part. (It was an almost _honest_ gesture. If an inanimate object could be said to be “honest”.))

The Pet was prodding at it, and nosing it around.

She approached, careful to keep her hands out of her face, and inquired, "You know what this is, right? That _weirdo_ with the _personal-bubble-issue_ gave it to me. You know, your friend? The one with the dark glasses?"

As expected, the creature didn't respond. It did, however, grow excited at the mere mention of said "friend". (She couldn't fathom any _sane_ person liking the strange man, but, she supposed, animals probably didn't perceive reality the same way that everyone else did. The Pet probably **_adored_** him, and didn't see anything "weird", or "creepy", about him, or the way he acted.)

It dug its paws into her carpeting, and bounced up, once, twice, emitting a high-pitched yipping sound. "Don't do that," she complained. "You're going to knock over my -- "

**_Crash._ **

She groaned, running her fingers through her hair, and tugging at some of the strands.

(An old habit.)

" -- never-mind."

It gave her a look that spelled out its own cluelessness.

She heaved a long sigh, deciding that scolding it wouldn't be worth the trouble.

("You can't teach an old dog new tricks," after all.)

She approached the leash, and picked it up, and then, beckoned the Pet over.

It obeyed, at a trot-of-a-pace, and sat back, easily, _cordially_ , almost, before her.

 _Strange._ She'd never met a dog that was _happy_ to be collared-and-leashed.

(Then again, most of the dogs she'd met before had been disobedient little shits.)

(... it was always hilarious, _true_ , but that's because they were never _her_ dogs.)

(She'd never even _liked_ animals, before, and had never considered having a pet. _Never enough time, or money_ , she'd reasoned, when asked. And, yet, **_here she was_**. Leashing her very-own stray.)

( _...sigh._ )

She leaned in closer, clipping the leash into the metal hoop of its collar (once she _found_ it, after a few moments spent tracing along its length), and then sat back, on her knees, ensuring that the collar wasn't too tight, or that the leash hadn't clipped fur, or harmed the Pet, in any way. (Or, really, that the Pet didn't _totally hate it_.)

That was how she saw it.

That same symbol she'd glimpsed, in passing, along one of the cuffs of the blind man's (?) coat, when he'd made a grab at her a week, or two, ago. She hadn't assumed it _meant_ anything, and she still had no reason to think so, but it was... _strange_ , seeing it more than once.

_Was it a brand logo...?_

(It was also possible that it was a gang symbol, but she doubted it.)

(If that man really _was_ blind, he would have _no business_ being part of a gang.)

(Even though...)

(... it still spooked her, sometimes, to recall the way the Pet had torn apart that chicken wing, after it had only been in the air for, probably, a second, or two.)

(Like it was... trained to "fetch".)

(She tried not to shudder at the thought. And failed.)

The symbol was purple. Again, _that_ _color_. It seemed to be a pattern, lately.

(Maybe it was because that creepy _"we're watching you"_ letter (or, something equally creepy, along those lines -- she couldn't remember the _exact_ words, **_verbatim_** (it wasn't like she'd _memorized_ the damn thing)) was penned in purple. Or, because the blind man's own "brand" had been purple, too. Whatever it was, she was starting to see purple where she'd never noticed it, before -- and she wasn't sure _why_ , but she had the distinct feeling that this wasn't a **_good_** thing. She felt like she was missing an incredibly important clue. (And she wasn't sure what blew more: feeling like you were in danger, but not knowing _why_ , or feeling like you were losing it.))

She knew it was ridiculous to keep looking over her shoulder, every five seconds, because of some strange symbol, or because of a _stupid color_ (she'd never liked purple, to begin with -- and this situation **_certainly_** wasn't softening her up to it), but she couldn't help wondering if something was _amiss_.

Especially because she couldn't brush aside the thought that the reason the blind man (?) acted like he knew something she didn't, was because, possibly, **_he did_**.

( _How morbid_ , she noted, and decided to discard the thought.)

(... for now _._ )

 

**12.**

Mallory gave up on trying to keep pace with the Pet after the umpteenth time she'd been forced to sidestep a jutting piece of sidewalk. (And after the umpteenth time she'd wondered to herself where all the taxpayer money was even _going_ , if it wasn't being used to maintain an orderly, **_and_ _safe_** , environment for people like her, with unruly "pets" and short legs.)

Instead of struggling to catch up to the damned creature, she allowed it to keep going, and began to slow to a leisurely stroll. ( _Mock._ ) It would reach the end of the line, eventually -- and that painful little tug on its neck would surely teach it a lesson about _patience_. (Wasn't her problem, anymore. She'd leave that up to the vet.)

(... the one she didn't have.)

( _Oh_ , who was she kidding? Even if it made her life **_miserable_** , she'd still worry about the stupid creature.)

To her astonishment, it appeared that the leash just kept going, and going, and going...

She tugged at it, herself, and began to pull out the chains from its "containment".

No matter how much she pulled out, it didn't seem to have an **_end_**.

In fact, it was like whoever had made this didn't conceive of the meaning of "finite".

(Or, the whole point of a "leash". Which was to keep a pet close at-hand, for safety purposes.)

(The amount of distance she'd have to cover, just to make up for all this length of "chain", would be **_impossible_** , at her stature. No, at _anyone's_ stature.)

(No _human being_ could **_possibly_** cover all that ground, not even in _leaps and bounds_...)

(...)

( _... what the hell?_ )

Just as she was beginning to wonder if she was losing it, or imagining things (which were synonymous, really), a shrill strum of violins filled the air around her, causing her to wince and drop the leash handle. Without wasting a breath, she bent and scooped it back up (relieved to note that the leash was so long that the Pet probably hadn't even noticed that she'd dropped it, to begin with (else, the Pet would have taken advantage to bound back and begin running _donuts_ around her (even though the Pet wasn't necessarily _cruel_ , or _malicious_ , it sure was **_playful_** ))).

Then, she pulled her phone out from her coat pocket and squinted down at the screen.

 _The moment of truth_ , she recognized.

It was a familiar number -- that of her supervisor.

(Whose name she could **_never_** remember (she had seriously titled his contact ID, "supervisor"). She only ever received contact from him sometimes, when absolutely necessary. Mostly, she could get all the information she needed online.)

( _Ah, the glamour of the modern age._ )

"Hello?"

"Mallory Wentz?"

"This is her."

"Hello, this is Roger Dane," (ah, so _that_ was his name). "I'm calling to let you know that the resort will be re-opening, soon. However," ( _goddamnit_ \-- she **_hated_** that word; nothing _good_ ever followed it), "I thought it prudent to inform you that if its usual business can't be recovered, following recent events, then we may have to close it down, for good."

Mallory had known this would happen. _It was only logical._

And yet, despite the _business sensibility_ , the news left her feeling sick.

It would mean she was out of a job. And Lord knows, it'd been difficult enough to get that job, _in the first place_. Not many places were hiring students her age with no experience in the field.

(And she couldn't sustain herself on the minimum wages offered by large chain corporations like Walmart and Burger King.)

(She would get a job there, if **_absolutely necessary_** , but even then, she'd have to get at least two more jobs to make up for the wage gaps between her previous job and her current one(s). And with that much burnout, she'd miss a lot of deadlines for her classes, and would start failing school. And the scholarships had made it **_very clear_** that she had to maintain a 2.5 GPA to maintain their coverage...)

( _Don't get ahead of yourself, Mallory_ , she told herself, sternly. _There's no point in getting ahead of yourself, and having a panic attack, when the verdict hasn't even been decided. Don't declare a case lost before the jury reports back_.)

"That sounds... _reasonable_ ," she managed to say, with much difficulty.

"This does not mean we are letting you go, Ms. Wentz," he tried to reassure her. "If such measures are necessary, you will keep your position. You will simply have to relocate to the nearest **_Cerulean Court_** establishment."

( _As if it's that easy_ , she retorted -- but didn't dare say so aloud.)

(Even though it was quite _unfair_. Her campus was far enough, as it was, without moving a further **_hour_** away. (And Mallory did not want to sacrifice her career for a college job.))

(So, really, it would be exactly as bad as she'd assumed.)

(And, really, even if she stayed put, and just commuted further to work, she wouldn't get back on time to do her work, or eat, or do anything but sleep. And if she sacrificed sleep, she'd be exhausted throughout each day, and unable to keep up, anyways.)

(She'd checked, a while back, for the nearest Cerulean Court, that wasn't the one she worked in. It was a whopping two hours; maybe three, depending on the traffic.)

(She'd just have to hope that **_whatever_** had happened wouldn't ruin business.)

(Knowing how _macabre_ and _morbid_ the masses could be, maybe a recent murder would only _attract_ more guests...?)

(It wasn't like it was the hotel staff, _themselves_ , who committed the crime, after all.)

(She wasn't even going to **_entertain_** the thought. Lilly Collins ( _not the actress_ ) was about as dangerous as a _toothpick_.)

"Understood."

"Well, that is all. Thank you for your time. Keep an eye peeled -- we'll be calling you within two weeks' time to let you know when you can return to work."

"Thank you," was her ( _over-cordial_ ) response, before, promptly, hanging up.

And swearing under her breath. She couldn't even see the Pet, anymore.

(But, somehow, she still felt like she wasn't alone.)

Without trying to be so obvious about it, and without understanding her own paranoia, Mallory threw a spare glance over her shoulder, and around her, briskly. But all she could see were near-barren trees, colorful leaves littering the ground, and the occasional car cruising by. No one else was in the general vicinity -- not that she could see.

A chill racked her spine, and she turned, deciding that she was done with her sightseeing. It was time to go back home.

(But, first, she had to catch up to the Pet, _wherever_ it currently was.)

(... and try to ignore the urge to flee far, far away, in the opposite direction.)

 

**13.**

Things only got weirder, from then on forward.

It didn't even matter _what_ she did, at this point -- Mallory never felt like she was truly alone, anymore. She didn't feel... "safe".

And she couldn't understand it.

Everything was becoming... _strange_. Eerie. **_But_** **_why?_**

Nothing bad had happened to _her_ , specifically. So, why did she feel like her time was... running out? Like she was in danger?

People _had_ died. Mysteriously enough, yes, that was true.

And it _did_ seem like the corpses were piling up in her general vicinity. That was enough to make _anyone_ nervous. It wasn't like she was being _unjustly paranoid_.

Anyone would be worried, if they'd noticed the patterns she had.

(The electric chair, which seemed to be following her, now. (A ridiculous assumption to make. It wasn't like it could just _get up and tail her_ , itself. (But that could only mean that _someone_ was doing it. That someone knew where she was, at all times, that someone was _watching_ her, and placing the cursed chair wherever they **_knew_** she would see it, and that possibility didn't bode well for her, either.)) As well as the series of... _incidents_ at the inn. Being followed by shadows in the night. That frustratingly unfamiliar song that continued to haunt every waking moment of her life. (The tune which she had almost _memorized_ , by now. As soon as it began, she could even hum along, if she wanted to. (Which, she _didn't_. That would be weird, all things considered. ( _For fuck's sake_ \-- it could probably be a **_bad_** **_sign_** , that she was either being stalked, or hearing things. The last thing she wanted was to entertain the notion that the melody _actually existed_.))))

She tried to consider what anyone else would do in her position.

Go to the police? She would, but she needed to have proof that this was happening, that she wasn't just “imagining things”, or “looking for attention”. They wouldn't take a report on face-value, alone. She still had the note, yes, but she could have easily forged it, herself.

(She had no idea what kind of messed-up person would _fake_ being stalked, but she didn't want to land herself in that category, so she had to be smart about this.)

(She had a future career in law, after all. She couldn't go damaging her reputation, not like _this_. That could come up in future cases, to discredit her reliability. She could move to have the notion dismissed, but that didn't mean it would be. And it wouldn't erase the knowledge from the minds of the jurors.)

No other evidence existed. Whoever was doing this was being _smart_ about it.

No fingerprints on the table, or the letter, or the doorknobs.

She'd check to see if there were any prints, or signs, on the chair, but doing so would imply she was _stupid enough_ to get close to it. Which she wasn't.

(Someone had **_died_** there. And that was as far as _public knowledge_ extended. Who knew how many other lives this psychopath (or "these psychopaths", plural) had taken?)

There were other strange factors, ones she'd couldn't dismiss, couldn't get out of her head, but what could she do about them? Yes, the blind (?) man was a _creep_ , and unnerving as all Hell, but it wasn't like he'd _done_ anything to her. ( ** _Yet._** )

He _could_ be following her (he did appear to keep showing up to places she least expected to see him at, after all), but she had no proof. Even if he _was_ mighty suspicious, and was probably giving himself away, with that _no-shame_ little grin of his, everywhere she'd ever seen him were public places -- all in the same general vicinity where she'd first met him. It wasn't like she'd seen him on her campus, or around the inn, or her house.

She'd have asked to look into the intercom records, to try and find evidence of that recording (?) that she'd heard over the PA system, a few months ago, but they hadn't opened up, yet. And something told her no such records would exist.

This was the most frustrated Mallory Wentz had ever felt, in her entire life.

(And she'd had some pretty irritating experiences.)

What was she supposed to do? What _could_ she do?

She felt... she felt **_trapped_**.

It was the **_worst_** feeling in the world.

(And, suspecting that _whoever_ was doing this, if they existed, had probably _intended_ for this to happen, made it all the worse.)

She was a sitting duck. Not even having the Pet around made her feel "safe".

(In fact, sometimes, she felt **_worse_** , looking at those strange green eyes, and seeing a strange emptiness in them.)

(It was like she’d woken up inside a compactor, and was watching the walls close in, but couldn't do anything to prevent her impending ( _messy_ ) death.)

(She had never been more _frightened_ , or more _confounded_ , in her entire life.)

(And what was worse, was not knowing whether or not this was all in her head.)

***

She was just beginning to doze off when there was a _tap-tap-tap_ on one of her windows. (An obnoxiously loud noise, this late into the night.)

Blinking, drearily, she sat up, and arched out her back, groaning in discomfort, before moving, lazily, to roll down said window. She yawned, opening her eyes, and was rewarded with a blinding light. She moved to shield herself from said light, but found that there was no longer any need to do so.

Squinting out through the gap, she found herself looking into the face of a familiar man, all decked-out in an equally-familiar uniform. "Can I help you, officer?"

She was still half-asleep, and could only hope she _sounded_ more self-assured than she _felt_. "Do you realize how **_dangerous_** it is to fall asleep outside a secured location, ma'am?"

"...?" her eyebrows furrowed.

"Too many civilians have lost their lives, as of late; and the culprits _still_ haven't been found," he went on, eyeing her, and the contents of her ( _sad_ ) little car, in a manner that was both chilling and infuriating. "This sort of behavior puts you at risk."

She rubbed at her eyes, and yawned, once more. "Would you rather I try to _drive_ like this?" It was his turn to furrow his eyebrows.

And, then, he noticed the bottles of champagne.

"Have you been drinking, ma'am?"

" _No_ ," was her sarcastic retort, somehow still coherent, even in her exhaustion. "Just like the view." He didn't seem to be in a good mood, so she sighed, and held up her hands. "I haven't moved from this spot all night, officer. That's the best I can do for you."

"It'd be better for all of us if you would allow me, or my partner, to escort you home."

(She didn’t _see_ anyone else with him – that should have been enough reason for alarm, on its own; but, owing to her exhaustion, she presently _couldn’t care less_.)

"You sure do give quite a damn about some _strange woman_ ," she muttered, falling back into the grasp of her seat. His fingers tapped along the edge of her window, impatiently, and she snorted.

" _Fine_. I give." She rolled her eyes, and peered around herself, hazily. "Let me just get my bag. It would be a shame if I lost a 200-page essay to your _persistent nagging_."

"Two-hundred page...? You're a _student_?"

She reached back, as far as possible, and snatched up her bag. Then, she turned her keys, and powered off the engine. And made to open the door. "What'd you _think_ I was? We met in one of my campus' parking lots."

He didn't say anything to that, and only held the door open for her, helping her out by placing a firm hand along her elbow. "I'm _not_ drunk," she informed him. "Most of those bottles are still full." She swung the bag over her shoulder, and folded her arms across her chest.

"I'm sure that's absolutely true," he dismissed, and began to escort her towards a cruiser he'd parked a little-ways behind her. She had a fleeting bout of paranoia (because she'd heard plenty of horror stories about _not-quite-cops_ faking authentic authority to kidnap gullible victims (and because he'd taken quite a strange interest in **_her_** \-- which didn't make sense, and only made him all-the-more-suspicious)), but decided to pay it no mind.

_For now._

She was _too tired_ to make any sense of it.

She'd think about it in the morning.

At the moment, she was just glad _he'd_ found her, and not someone else less... _pleasant_.

Judging by the look on his face, though, that might not be entirely true, either.

***

Mallory sighed for what must’ve been the sixtieth time that evening.

(And yes, she _was_ keeping count. She had nothing better to do with her time.)

Her fingers were itching, mind dragging itself across the (metaphorical) floor, forcing itself to stay alert. (However much she wanted to drift into a deep, abiding slumber.) She hadn’t been planning on waking up, not for the duration of the night – but now that she had been _forced_ to, she couldn’t stand this: sitting around, **_idling_** , doing nothing with her hands, or with her mind. (Well, besides worrying. And hating her life.)

(Not that this was _new_ to her.)

The officer (whose name she either couldn’t recall, or hadn’t been told (which she was _fairly certain_ was a violation of her right to… to… honestly, she couldn’t remember what sort of violation this was – but she knew for a fact that it _was_ one)) who had picked her up (and, quite frankly, been _harassing_ her for weeks, now) apparently had an _undying fascination_ for her.

Her activities, her living situation, her studies, her aspirations… _why_ , though, she had **_no idea_**.

She doubted this was your typical, run-of-the-mill interrogation.

 _Oh, that’s right._ Did she forget to mention? This was, apparently, an interrogation. _Why?_

Who knew? She didn’t even think she was being _charged_ with anything.

(Which was, admittedly, relieving. She had no alibi. For crying out loud, Mallory Wentz was a _hermit_ – who was going to back up her story? The Pet?)

( _…_ )

( _… no. You’re exhausted, and you’re getting **delirious** if you think **the Pet** can do anything to help you._ )

“Listen, _officer_ ,” she began, drily, “I’m seriously considering taking my chances and just throwing myself through that conveniently-placed office window, but since I know I’m terrible at _any_ kind of athletic activity when I’m exhausted, I’d like for you to just save us both some of our precious time and tell me _why the hell I’m here_.”

His cold blue eyes stared straight into hers, gaze unwavering, and she stared back, unflinching.

( _A battle of the wills_ , she thought to herself, sardonically.)

“Well?” she prodded, giving up all attempts to appear interested.

(Not that she had ever given him this impression, to begin with.)

(… _she assumed_.)

“ _Amusing_ ,” he stated, equally as caustic. “Let me be perfectly frank, _ma’am_. You are surrounded by suspicious activity. Every clue I’ve managed to dig up points back to you. I don’t know _what_ you are involved in, but I suggest, kindly, that you **_cease and desist_**. Before you find yourself in the kind of trouble you _won’t_ be able to sass your way through.”

“ _Aww_ ,” she drawled, mock-disappointed. “But that’s the only thing I’m _good_ at.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” was his flat response. There was a sharp trill that distracted them both, without warning. His blue eyes shifted. He was peering down at his phone, now, seeming troubled by whatever notification he had received.

“Better get back to it, then, **_sir_** ,” she pointed out, backing the title with nothing but scorn. “I think it’s safe to say that we’re both too busy for this bullshit.”

“I meant what I said.” He got up to his feet, pocketing his phone. She couldn’t help feeling a prick of curiosity. “ ** _Watch yourself_**. You’re being careless, and either you, or someone close to you, are involved in something you _shouldn’t_ be.”

“Are you accusing me of something?” her eyebrows furrowed. “Because I’m getting sick of this _will-he-won’t-he_ crap. Either charge me, or let me go. You can’t keep _harassing_ me like this. **_I have rights_**.”

“…” he remained silent, scrutinizing her.

She snorted, a gesture of exasperation. “I’m done here. Have a nice evening, _officer_.”

He made a move towards her, but she gave no indication of stopping. She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and made her way, quickly, through the door.

“ _Ma’am_ –”

“Thanks for the waste of time – this was delightful,” she shot back over her shoulder. “Let’s _not_ do this, again, though – **_really_**. I’m a busy woman, and I’m sure you’ve got too much work to be bothering yourself about _little old me_ , too.”

“I – _Primus_ ,” he muttered the last bit, watching her speed up, briskly, until she was out of sight.

She had no idea what that last word meant, but assumed it was a sign of _personal victory_.

And she knew the **_perfect_** way to celebrate (?).

_Morning of regret, here I come._

***

He backed off for a while after that. ( _Thankfully_.)

Or, _really_ , it was possible that he’d just gotten better at hiding his presence.

Either way, he wasn’t bothering her, anymore, so Mallory felt “good”.

Or, as “good” as she would **_ever_** feel, at _this_ rate.

Of course, she still felt paranoid. And she still wasn’t getting _nearly_ enough sleep – so, maybe, she could write everything off to her perpetual state of exhaustion.

(… _probably_. That sounded like a good excuse to _her_.)

In any case, it came down to trying to force herself to get _at least_ 4 hours of sleep so that she could get as much done as she needed to, the next day. A nightly struggle. Shots of expresso were _quickly_ becoming her “best friends”.

(And so were shots of something a little less “appropriate”.)

(It was really the **_only_** way she could get any rest.)

(It was actually quite _upsetting_ , how quickly the “mighty” could fall from grace. She’d gone from a respectable, productive member of society to a miserable, paranoid little woman who had to numb her own paranoia just to get a wink of sleep.)

(So, in other words, “business as usual”.)

(An exaggeration, **_of course_**. Mallory Wentz’s life had never been “easy”, or “pleasant”, but it had never been… well, like _this_. This wasn’t as bad as it _could_ get, she recognized that – but at the same time, it was hardly a “walk in the park”. It was stress-inducing. And… just, well, _unpleasant_.)

( _That’s enough of that_ , she decided. Feeling sorry for herself wasn’t going to change anything.)

(That was the motto she lived by, after all. _“Rather than being pathetic, just **deal** with it. It won’t last forever.”_ It had worked, up until now, and she had faith (which was _rare_ , in and of itself) that it would continue to lead her to “greatness” (or, honestly, _mediocrity_ ).)

What was she doing at the moment, that she had enough time to “reflect” on this?

 _Nothing special, really._ Mallory had decided to take a walk, try to clear her head. She’d been mid-sentence on a final paper before she’d realized that she had **_no idea_** what she was writing about. She had the outline, the sources, the textbook, right there beside her – but she couldn’t make out a _single word_ of it. Could read them, but they wouldn’t settle in. No matter how hard she tried to make sense of it, her brain just wasn’t cooperating.

She kept yawning, and was beginning to feel frustrated. What good was expresso if it didn’t help? _What a waste of money…_

She had begun to hate herself for wasting the money that she _could’ve_ used to feed the Pet, or to pay a bill… needless to say, she’d decided that, rather than stressing herself out, or putting herself at risk for **_burnout_** , it was a better idea to just go out and clear her head.

“Uneasiness” be damned. Honestly, at this point, she didn’t give a **_shit_** if her paranoia was misplaced, or not. Death was beginning to look like a sweet, sweet release.

(… she didn’t _actually_ mean that. _Just to be perfectly clear._ )

(You’d be hard-pressed to find someone who was _actually_ ready to die, and, _even less_ , looking forward to it, no matter _what_ they said, or how **_miserable_** they were.)

(It was different to _wish_ for something than it was to _receive_ it. “Death,” especially.)

She’d left the Pet at home. It was becoming… _restless_ , lately.

Pacing back and forth, looking almost nervous, jumping any time a door slammed (even if it was across the street). It whimpered when she left in the morning for classes, and she was surprised to find it… _cowering_ , one day. Just… _hiding_. Underneath her kitchen table, behind the tablecloth.

The Pet’s strange behavior probably wasn’t of much help to her growing paranoia.

Anytime the Pet growled, now, even playfully, she would startle, peer around, and find herself feeling stupid, like an overgrown child looking for the boogeyman when it didn’t exist.

…

 _Ahem, right._ Regardless, here she was. The Pet was at home, resting (hopefully ( _at least one of us can get some sleep…_ )), and she was talking a solitary walk, beginning to feel silly for having avoided doing this, for so long.

What did she even think was going to happen? She doubted that even if she _was_ being followed, whoever (or _what_ ever) it was would try to do anything to her when she was out **_in_ _public_**. In fact, she was probably safer outside, in a crowd, than she was at home, alone.

(With an increasingly-strange “pet”.)

She couldn’t help remembering what that creep-of-a-blind-man (honestly, _was_ he blind, or not?) had told her. He was probably full of shit, but at the same time… what if she and the Pet weren’t _half_ as close as she liked to think?

_…_

Mallory could feel her own expression twisting – her mouth tugging downwards, her eyes narrowing. She thought about going back home, for a second, but wasn’t given much of an option to debate the idea.

“Why the long face?”

She stiffened, telling herself not to turn around, to _just keep walking_ , to ignore him.

But he wasn’t having it, apparently.

She was almost surprised to see how fast he moved. One moment, he was behind her, and the next… he was blocking her path. She could easily go around him, but something told her _not_ to try it. Maybe some innate sense of danger? Who knew?

“You,” she stated, tone flat. And promptly wondered how the hell _he_ would know what face she was making. (So… he _wasn’t_ blind…?)

“Me,” was his response, bordering on giddy.

(Whatever _this_ guy was on, she needed to _steer clear_ of.)

(… or, maybe not. He never looked _tired_ , so maybe…?)

( _No. That’s not an option._ )

“…”

He was grinning, now. (She reckoned he didn’t know how to make any other expression.)

(Normally, that level of personal happiness would be “encouraging”, as she’d been led to believe ( _… no comment, there_ ), but right now, it was bordering on **_creepy_**.)

“You’re probably wondering how I found you?”

Her expression flickered. Even in this state of exhaustion, she couldn’t let go of the wariness that was near-permeating her entire being (and “soul”, if she ever decided to believe in that).

“A little, yeah.”

She hadn’t realized, until he’d mentioned it, how **_disturbing_** this situation was.

One of her primary reasons for _not_ reporting him was that he hadn’t shown up anywhere he “shouldn’t” – like her campus, or _her house_. Which is what he had just done.

This changed… this changed **_everything_**.

If he showed up _here_ , the chances were _exceedingly high_ that he knew where she lived.

Which wasn’t a pleasant thought.

It wasn’t like he had tried to _hurt_ her, or anything, but she wouldn’t really go so far as to say he wasn’t _capable_ of it. Mallory Wentz was a lot of things, but _stupidly naïve_ wasn’t one of them.

Her therapist had once said that she had “trust issues”. But she was still alive, and “well”, wasn’t she? And where was **_he_**? _Oh, right._ Recovering from a horrible “accident”. (Which she had no part of. ( _Seriously_ , people. That’s _not_ what she was alluding to.))

 _Of course_ , it wasn’t as if she would just **_let_** him attack her, _willy-nilly_. She wasn’t planning on dying at the hands of some creepy, blind-or-not, homeless (?) man. If that meant clawing out an extremity, then _so be it_.

(Even though Mallory wasn’t big on _extreme violence_ … _ugh_. Just thinking about it made her stomach turn. _Please, don’t let it come to that. Please, please, please…_ (What was she doing? Who did she think was listening to her prayers? Had _any_ all-powerful being **_ever_** helped her out in her life?))

“You’re not hard to track down,” was his equally-cheery response. And then… and then, he actually started _humming_. As if he was going along with a piece of music only _he_ could hear.

She could suddenly understand _why_ the Pet was so jumpy. This guy was a **_freak_**.

(Was he… was he… experiencing some kind of _psychosis_?)

( _Great…_ unarmed and alone with someone who was possibly **_insane_**.)

She watched as he took a step forward, then another, and, just like that, his grin was gone.

And in its place was an empty, hollow look. It was almost **_terrifying_**.

She felt herself take a step back, without quite knowing why.

It was almost a… _primal_ response.

There was something dreaded, but largely familiar, bubbling in her chest. She recognized it as “fear” – even though it had been a **_long_** time since she’d last experienced it.

(Not since she was a _child_ , really…)

“You’re going through an awful lot of trouble to keep tracking me down,” she stated, carefully. Not quite sure what would set him off. She felt like anything he said or did would be a trap, at _this_ point, and wasn’t at all willing to find out _why_.

“ _Oh?_ So you noticed.” He giggled, but the action didn’t match his expression. It was… _odd_.

Almost as if he was putting in too much effort to act… well, “normal”. **_Human_**.

(That thought was weird, itself.)

( _God_ , she **_desperately_** needed some sleep…)

“It’s not like it was something I could ignore,” she pointed out. And then, her eyes narrowed. “If you were trying to _hide_ it, you’re not very good at that.”

His grin vanished, once more. _This_ time, though, he looked angry.

“ ** _Hide_** …?” he echoed. “From what? _You?_ That’s hysterical.”

“Well, I didn’t mean it _so_ _specifically_ , but if _that’s_ the way you’re choosing to interpret it…”

She folded her arms across her chest, now, beginning to feel that telltale flicker of _exasperation_.

He took another step forward, then paused, and tilted his head.

( _Yes_ , actually **_tilted_** it. Like some sort of animal.)

(Which she had seen the Pet do, itself, multiple times. She’d always found it _endearing_ , but now, she just found it _unnerving_.)

“Why are you wearing those things if you don’t seem to need them?” she finally decided to ask.

( _Seriously._ She was getting sick of wondering whether he was or wasn’t blind.)

“I don’t use them for _me_ ,” was his strange response. “I use them for **_everyone else_**. It’d be a shame if I stirred up a fuss. Trust me, it’s _better_ this way.”

She blinked, once, twice, and then, shook her head. Slowly.

A gesture of “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, but whatever you say, buddy”.

(She’d _perfected_ it, during her adolescent years.)

(It involved rolling her eyes, and looking up at the sky like, “You hearing this shit, too?”)

“Stirred up a fuss…?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, again.

(Like a child. **_Again._** )

“Look, unless you _literally have no eyes_ , I doubt anyone would _care_. But, whatever. _Do you_ , I guess,” she chanced another long look around. _Still_ alone with him.

(For whatever reason, even though she didn’t see anyone (or any _thing_ ) else, she didn’t exactly feel “safe”. She felt… “surrounded”. Which made no lick of fucking sense?)

“I don’t need your permission to do it, my dear,” was his sing-song response. “But if it bothers you so much, I suppose I _could_ show you why I wear them. You know, _in your last moments_. Wouldn’t that be **_nice_** of me?”

“… I get the feeling that you have **_no idea_** what that word is supposed to mean.”

(Mallory couldn’t even wrap her head around the fact that he’d basically just **_threatened_** her about as casually as someone might talk about the traffic going down I-90.)

( _… seriously, what a **freak**_.)

“Of course I do,” he pretended to sound hurt. His eyebrows even furrowed, to go along with the act. “Don’t you think it would be so **_kind_** of me to show you my face before I **_ended_** you? It’s a great honor, you know? Or, _well_ , I suppose you wouldn’t really understand anything about _honor_ , would you?” His voice took on a teasing lilt, just like that.

(Though he seriously sounded like he _believed_ that. Which was _just rude_ to assume about someone you’d only just met. Even **_Mallory_** , who didn’t like most people, _by principle_ , knew to drew the line at making assumptions about people’s _sense of dignity_.)

“Would _you_ , though?” she unfolded her arms, then, and settled her hands along her hips.

His eyebrows furrowed, and his lips tugged down into a scowl. Probably the first _genuine_ response she’d observed coming from him, as of yet. “ ** _Excuse me_** _?_ ”

“Honestly, you’ve been following me around for, what, weeks? _Months_? You haven’t made your intentions clear, and, just now, you decided to _threaten_ me, and accuse me of having _no honor_ , when I have no idea who the hell **_you’re_** supposed to be, or why I should **_care_**.” She threw up her hands in frustration. “I’m just wondering what _your_ definition of ‘honor’ is, that’s all. Because you sure as hell haven’t been _demonstrating_ any, yourself.”

“I…” he seemed almost flustered, at a complete loss for words.

The first time she’d **_ever_** witnessed that, coming from **_him_**. It was, honestly, _refreshing_.

She found herself fighting her own snickers. But, alas, as “fun” as this was ( _…_ ), she **_really_** couldn’t stick around. Especially not _now_ , when she felt like she’d just poked the bear.

“Are we done, here?”

He didn’t say anything. Just watched her, a strange expression on his face.

The hollowness was back.

She had to suppress a shudder when she finally turned her back on him, and began to, briskly, make her way back to her tiny apartment. Forget “fresh air” – she’d just crack open a window.

 ** _No way_** she was risking bumping into _this_ guy, again.

(Not when he was sounding particularly **_homicidal_**.)

(Which she couldn’t really understand. If she didn’t know any better, she’d have thought they were _getting along_ , even, considering how their last “meeting” had gone.)

(She supposed that was what happened, then. Sometimes, you thought someone wasn’t all that bad. A little _weird_ , but not _malicious_. Then, life slapped you upside the head for being such a _dumb bitch_ and actually **_believing_** your own bullshit.)

(…)

(Mallory was actually getting pretty sick of being “slapped upside the head”.)

“I wouldn’t come out here too late,” he called after her. (Having abruptly decided that he wanted to talk to her, again. ( _Far too late_. She wasn’t turning back. Her courage had fled her, and she was suddenly feeling like hiding under her table with the Pet. He (it) was suddenly looking like a _genius_ , to her.)) “ ** _Bad things happen to traitors in the dark_**.”

That last bit gave her pause. _Traitor…? What…?_

But by the time she thought to ask, he was already gone.

***

The next time Mallory went out for a walk, she didn’t go alone.

(She liked to think that she was the type to _learn_ from her mistakes. (And from someone else’s, too. There was a saying about “vicarious living”, and how “it wasn’t good for you”. She thought this was **_complete bullshit_** , in some situations. It wasn’t like she was going to watch someone **_die_** trying to do something, and then assume that it’d be a _good idea_ to try it, herself. It wasn’t “cowardly” – it was _smart_. A little thing she liked to call “the will to live”.))

In either case, she took the Pet with her, this time. (It had appeared rather hesitant, initially, but after a few minutes of uneventful strolling, it had begun to lose considerable tension, and was now enjoying the wind “gently” slipping through its fur (its coarse, _thick_ fur ( _Jesus_ , what kind of animal even _was_ he?)). She was glad _he_ was enjoying himself – Mallory, herself, was **_freezing_**.)

She still felt like she wasn’t really “alone”, but chalked it off to being in the presence of the Pet.

(It was **_strange_** , really. Most of the time, you didn’t think of an animal as having a significant “presence” worth noting (unless it was a _dangerous_ creature that was attempting to _harm_ you). Somehow, she always found herself wondering if the Pet was… “sentient”. It was too clever, too self-aware, too… **_emotional_**. And not in the typical, “primal” sense. There was _intelligence_ in its green eyes. She didn’t think this was a common observation to make about one’s “pet”. (She was also beginning to think he was more of a “companion”. It felt almost… **_insulting_** , to refer to him as anything _less_.) Then again, Mallory hadn’t slept for any more than _four hours_ for the past couple of weeks. So, there was _that_ factor.)

She was contemplating stopping by somewhere to buy herself some takeout (and debating what to do with the Pet, while she went inside to make the purchases) when she realized that the two of them were no longer alone.

To her relief, it wasn’t the not-blind homeless (?) man. But she didn’t feel any less wary of whoever _this_ was. She couldn’t see much, in this infernal darkness, but even from here, she could tell she was swaying. _Probably drunk._

Mallory tended to avoid the drunken and the idiotic, by principle, especially at _this_ time of day.

Strangely enough, she didn’t feel all that worried, not like she would have if the Pet hadn’t been there with her. The woman didn’t say anything (probably _couldn’t_ , depending on how drunk she was), but she did keep teetering forward, swaying as she “walked”.

 _It’s not even late enough to **be** this drunk_ , Mallory found herself thinking, with a hint of distaste. But, really, who was _she_ to judge?

_Do you, I guess._

She had no desire to stick around, in any case.

She began to tug on the Pet’s leash, and it stopped short of colliding into the woman. She finally lifted her head, a lolling motion, and made eye contact with Mallory. The look in her eyes stopped her short.

She looked… **_terrified_**. Mallory took a few steps forward, and felt her blood run cold.

The woman wasn’t drunk. _She was hurt_. That was _blood_ , not drool, or liquor, dripping down her chin, and more of it was spilling down along her thighs, staining her blouse. She wasn’t wearing anything below the waist.

A sense of horror came over her, all at once. It was becoming painfully obvious what had happened to this woman. Mallory approached her, carefully, slowly, so as not to startle her (uncertain of just how “aware” the woman still was of her surroundings (she did appear to be vaguely “intoxicated” (which Mallory was now beginning to doubt was _purposeful_ ))), but she had only just laid a palm flat against her back, trying not to grimace at the unpleasant sensation of blood seeping through the fabric, probably staining her own hand, when she heard the telltale thud of a boot behind her.

She turned her head, and found herself looking into the face of one of the two men whom had approached, without warning, and without a single sound. She couldn’t make out any distinguishing features, but she had a sneaking suspicion that whatever had happened to this woman was _his_ doing (and she wouldn’t be too surprised if his “friend” had any say in it, as well).

“ _Wow_. Look at that. Throw one into the water, and you reel up another,” stated said “friend”.

His arms were folded across his chest. She straightened up, eyes narrowing, and expression becoming colder by the second, unmoving, unwilling to allow them to stare her down.

The Pet was still as a statue, just as motionless. It wasn’t looking at _them_ , though. It was looking at _her_. As if waiting for something. “What did you **_do_** to her?” was her only response.

She wasn’t going to play along with whatever they were expecting this to be.

“She’s fine,” dismissed the one whom she’d been looking at, earlier. He took a step forward. She stiffened, moving to block off the woman, whom had now begun to shake violently, trying to pull her blouse further down to block off her exposed genitals.

It was… honestly disheartening.

“ ** _Back off_** ,” she warned, clutching the leash tighter in her fisted hand.

“Or what, **_bitch_**? You gonna sic your dog on me?”

He took another step forward.

“Am I supposed to be _scared_ of you?” she ground out. “Because that’s hilarious.”

( _Honestly_. She was too wired up from… **_everything else_**. And she was sick and tired of the world trying to force her into submission. There was **_no way_** she was going to stand her ground against that creep of a homeless (?) man, but suddenly decide to cower from _these_ _two_ _imbeciles_.)

(The scales just wouldn’t make any sense.)

“If you think we _won’t_ do it to you, too, then you don’t know who the **_fuck_** you’re messing with.”

“Rory, come on, man. We’re not here for _her_. She’s not worth the trouble,” chastised the other.

“You better start walking, then,” she advised. “Because you’re not placing a single **_disgusting_** finger on _her_ , either.” She folded her own arms across her chest, now.

The other man’s eyes narrowed.

“Man, **_fuck this_** ,” muttered “Rory”. He took another step forward, and reached for something in his pockets. That was his last mistake.

Mallory had almost forgotten that the Pet was there – she blinked, _just once_ , and then, just when she was backing away, moving closer to the (swaying) woman, everything spiraled out of control, **_all at once_**.

He didn’t even have any time to scream.

The Pet was on him in ten-seconds-flat, and the one who was screaming, in absolute, **_human_** terror, was the _other_ man. She could hear a sickening, wet, tearing sound, and gurgling, and felt her own stomach trying to push against her ribs and force her to turn away.

But she couldn’t. There was blood everywhere, suddenly, and… _more than just blood_.

The other man almost looked like he was in shock, and she just barely caught a glimpse of the hollow, “dead” eyes of “Rory” before she realized that the other man had begun to flee.

He didn’t make it far.

The Pet made quick, messy work of “Rory”, and moved on, growling, and yipping, blood dripping, viscous, from its snout – she almost felt something like pity welling up inside her.

No, no it was **_disgust_**.

She could feel her stomach turning as she listened to his piercing screams, and turned her back on the scene, gratefully, _at last_ , to try and tend to the still-swaying woman. Whom either had no idea what was going, or wasn’t capable of showing anything other than **_terror_**.

Mallory assumed it was from what had happened to _her_ , but then the woman clutched at her shoulders, eyes wide, and whimpered, “Please – **_please_** , _not me_. I don’t – I don’t _want_ to – please, **_I’m sorry_** – I…”

She broke down into sobs. And Mallory _did_ feel pity, this time, because she realized that not only had she ( _probably_ ) just been raped, but she had also been forced to watch some strange, terrifying _animal_ (?) rip those same assailants apart.

( ** _Hell_** , even Mallory, _herself_ , wished she hadn’t witnessed that.)

(… this was going to take a _helluva_ lot of vodka to forget.)

(Especially if she actually wanted to be able to _sleep_ without suffering terrifying nightmares of the Pet.)

When she turned her head, though, she was surprised to see that the Pet was **_gone_**.

He had left behind a mess of blood, _but_ _no bodies_.

She clutched the woman closer, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

But she didn’t have _time_ to ask any questions. The woman collapsed in her arms, then, and she knew she had to hurry her to the hospital. Goosebumps raised along her arms as she remembered the… **_cruelty_** in the Pet’s face. Its eyes had been glowing red.

**_Red._ **

Not green, **_red_**.

And its claws… its maw… sticky with **_blood_**.

It had looked… _half-crazed_.

Something about that visage reminded her of the words of the homeless (?) man.

About how the Pet’s “loyalty” wasn’t “easily bought”, whatever _that_ meant.

Now, she was beginning to worry that she might find out why he’d said it.

***

_Now that **that** mess is taken care of…_

Mallory allowed herself to sink back into her couch with a long, weary sigh.

She tried to rub the fatigue from her eyes, but it didn’t work.

She yawned, again, for the fifth time since she’d come home.

(Which had only been thirty minutes ago.)

It was late. She didn’t have classes the next day, but she was still regretting her decision to leave the house, at all. (Of course, it _had_ to happen. Otherwise, something **_worse_** might’ve happened to that poor woman. Also… maybe she _had_ to see that. Maybe it was _crucial_ that her stupidly blind faith in the Pet come under question. At the same time, though, he _had_ defended her. He had no other reason to act as he had, otherwise. They _had_ been threatening her. And the Pet had _only_ taken action, _then_. It had been **_vicious_** , yes, but also, _thorough_. As if… as if this was something it did _often_ …)

(She didn’t want to think about that. Yes, it had been _horrifyingly violent_ , but at the same time, she was _safe_ , and the woman was _alive_ , and recovering, thanks to the Pet.)

Everything was becoming so… **_complicated_**.

 _Stupidly_ complicated.

Every single waking moment was spent worrying about the homeless (?) man, the strange letter, the now-familiar tune that she’d first heard at the hotel, the markings on the Pet’s collar, the electric chair she had been seeing _more_ and _more_ _often_ , lately – and, now, Mallory **_knew_** that the Pet was going to be added to this list of worries (if he wasn’t there, _already_ ).

She’d been so busy worrying, and fretting, and acting paranoid, that it was an honest-to-God **_miracle_** that she’d managed to get _any_ work done for her classes, at all.

(And _,_ of course, this was all at the expense of a well-night’s rest. ( _Goodbye, beloved sleep. We’ve had a good run._ ))

“Why can’t I just catch a break?” she asked no one in particular.

And, _of course_ , no one answered.

***

Another yawn.

Mallory tried to rub the sleep from her eyes, to no avail.

She peered down at the sidewalk before her, lost in thought.

The Pet was **_really_** gone. It hadn’t given her any signs or clues about its whereabouts; neither had she glimpsed head nor tail of it since it had vanished -- and it’d already been close to two weeks.

She was losing the will to sleep, _at all_ , as time went on – and had to _force_ herself to, often enough. With specially-prescribed sleeping pills.

(Her physician had given her such a _pitying_ look, seeing the dark circles under her eyes, the lack of life in her expression, the slump in her posture – and had promptly written her a prescription for **_Ambien_**.)

(She wasn’t sure if it was working, or not.)

(She fell asleep _much_ _earlier_ , but at the same time, she woke up around three or four in the morning, _every day_ , because the nightmares were becoming… **_too much_**.)

(And no, Mallory _wasn’t_ a “child”. It wasn’t like most of her nightmares _actually_ terrified her. It was just… she couldn’t make out **_why_** these particular ones were so horrifying, but they _were_ , and she couldn’t deal with the idea of going right back to that **_torture_** , when she’d just narrowly “escaped”.)

(She kept seeing those moments replayed in her head. The Pet tearing “Rory” apart. The blood she’d found on that chair, a few months back. The graphic descriptions of those “murder victims” that she’d found online. It had been a **_mistake_** to go looking for answers…)

She needed to sit down. She was getting dizzy.

(Apparently, that’s what happened when you became a _consistent insomniac_. Nothing in your body cooperated, anymore. You felt exhausted in the middle of the day, your muscles hurt, your head spun or pounded ( _or both_ ), your mouth felt exceedingly dry, you were **_always_** hungry, but you **_never_** ate enough…)

(Or, maybe, that was just _her_.)

With little energy for “second thoughts”, Mallory made her way toward the coffee shop that she frequently passed on her way home from the grocery store. (She liked to do some walking. So sue her, for not being **_lazy_**. (Although, right now, she was regretting this decision.))

She was already seated, having asked for a double shot of expresso, when she noticed a familiar visage. The “officer” from before (why did she have to emphasize that, like he was _lying_? (he’d taken her to a _real_ police station, after all…)).

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

(Which she supposed shouldn’t have been as _weird_ as it was to her. She had never _seen_ him keeping any sort of company, but it wasn’t like she could just assume that meant he was _always_ alone.)

It was another man. Graying hair, tired eyes. Probably a colleague of his.

They seemed to be having a private, quiet discussion about something – that is, until he noticed her. They made eye contact, briefly, and she felt a prick of regret.

There went her “quiet afternoon out”.

Just as she had expected, he stood up, gesturing towards her. She _hadn’t_ expected for his companion to get up, too, though. His eyes met hers, as he turned, and he offered her a surprisingly pleasant smile.

He _looked_ about as tired as she _felt_.

She felt something like a “connection”, almost instantly.

(Or, it could just be her quickly-draining rationality.)

“Officer,” she greeted, without really bothering to peer up. A cup of coffee, as well as a bagel, was placed in front of her. She hadn’t ordered it, but one look at the waitress confirmed what it was: a gesture of kindness. The elderly woman appeared to be feeling sympathetic.

(Did she look that… _bad_?)

“Ma’am,” was his equally dry response.

He sat across from her, his companion taking a seat at the end of her table.

“Ma’am, are you… **_alright_**?” said newcomer interjected.

“Honestly, no,” was her monotonous response. His expression of intense concern almost made her feel bad. ( _You’re not supposed to be **honest** when someone asks you how you are… that’s common courtesy, you idiot._ ) “Life is just… **_hard_** , lately.”

“I can understand that.” He offered her another smile, this one the teeniest bit sincerer.

“ _The night is darkest before the dawn_ , they say,” she muttered, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Oh? That’s an interesting saying,” he actually appeared to be _contemplating_ it.

She had to force herself not to choke on her coffee.

She’d never heard of anyone who took those “folk sayings” so _seriously_.

He almost looked like he was planning on writing it down.

“I guess so,” she stated, with the barest hint of a smile. “I think I like you better than your friend, here, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“I don’t,” was his response, sounding almost like he was teasing said “friend”. “He is not… _adept_ at conversing in a manner that _doesn’t_ place homicidal thoughts into another’s head.”

This time, she _did_ choke on her coffee. “Ain’t that the gospel truth?”

His own smile grew, and she found herself beginning to snort with laughter.

Of course, said “friend” didn’t exactly _appreciate_ that they were joking around at _his_ expense.

“How _kind_ of you to say so, **_Orion_** ,” was his snide remark.

The unknown man appeared either not to notice, or to ignore, the way his “friend” said his name. (Which was stated with a certain amount of… _ridicule_.)

“It’s all in good spirit,” he said, with a look that was almost chiding. “I **_do_** have to wonder, though, what you _did_ to this young lady to make her feel inclined to agree, so readily.”

“ ** _What had to be done_** ,” was his brisk response. “No one else is willing to ask the tough questions. _Someone_ has to do it.”

“And that someone will **_always_** be you,” sighed “Orion”. “ _Things have changed_ , old friend. I thought you knew this, by now, but it appears that you are just as willing as before to do things on your own terms.”

“And I will **_continue_** to do so until everyone else shapes up,” was the officer’s sharp retort. “In any case, we’re not here to discuss my _methodology_. **_Ma’am_** ,” he always managed to make such a respectful title sound like he was spitting on her grave, somehow, “this might be your **_last chance_** to tell us if you’ve noticed _anything_ out of the ordinary, or if you’ve **_done_** something you **_shouldn’t_**.”

“You know, if you’re going to keep accusing me of being some kind of criminal, the **_least_** you could do is call me by my damn name,” she stated, with a long sigh. She took another sip of her coffee.

“No one is **_accusing_** anyone of **_anything_** ,” was “Orion’s” response, tone shifting into one of faint disapproval. Though she could tell it was more or less directed at the _officer_ , rather than at _her_. She felt a trill of relief.

(Because even though she didn’t give any indication of such, it was **_stressful as hell_** to try to go about your daily life under the threat of being imprisoned for a crime you had **_no idea_** you were even being _suspected_ of.)

“ ** _No_** ,” was the officer’s equally hard response. “I suppose _not_.”

He stood up, and he turned his back on them, just like that, without any warning.

“Since **_Orion_** here doesn’t seem to be willing to get _anything_ done, and since **_you_** won’t be ‘cooperating’, **_ma’am_** , I’ll just have to look into it on my own.” That being said, he left.

Just as abruptly as he’d arrived.

She found herself wondering, faintly, how one person could be **_so rude_**.

(And then remembered that she wasn’t exactly a _bouquet of roses_ , herself.)

“Sorry about that,” she tried to apologize, but “Orion” held up a single hand.

He heaved a long sigh, almost echoing her own actions every day of her life, for the past few weeks. “No. The one who should apologize is _me_. You didn’t need to witness that unpleasantness. I’m sorry about that, **_truly_** , Miss…?”

“Mallory. Mallory Wentz,” she offered a smile of her own, as sincere as it had **_never_** been, for perhaps the past twenty years of her life. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t take most of what he says seriously, anyway. I’ve learned _not_ to.”

“ _That’s_ … well, if it works for _you_.” His eyebrows furrowed, and then, he took a closer look at her expression as she took another sip of her coffee. “Miss Wentz, you should **_really_** think about getting some rest.”

“ _I_ should be saying the same to _you_. You _sound_ like you haven’t slept in **_a_** **_million years_**.”

“It’s funny you should say that.” He laughed.

“It’s actually _sad_ ,” she corrected, with a grin of her own.

He paused, then, mid-smile, as if he was suddenly far, far away.

(She suspected a _Bluetooth_.)

“I hate to end our conversation so **_abruptly_** , Miss Wentz, but I must be going.”

“ _Business elsewhere_ , huh?”

“Yes. **_Always_** ,” he sighed.

“Have you ever thought about quitting?” she joked.

“I have. And I **_did_**. Sometimes, though, life has a way of doing **_exactly_** **_the_** **_opposite_** of what you want,” he said, and even though his words weren’t _cheerful_ ones, he still offered a smile.

“Kicking and screaming, huh?”

“Kicking and screaming,” he agreed.

They were both silent for a moment, and she took that chance to take another sip.

And grimaced. Her coffee had gone lukewarm.

“This has been nice,” he said, softly.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “First time in months.”

“Take care of yourself, please.” He placed a hand along her shoulder, and she didn’t have the heart to respond. She just watched him walk away, coffee forgotten.

“ ** _I wish._** ”

***

Thirty-seven days.

A _month_ had already passed since the last time she’d seen the Pet.

**_An entire month._ **

Once, this would not have perturbed her. Mallory Wentz could never really describe herself as someone having significant “attachments”; she either _dealt_ with another’s presence, or did _not_.

It wasn’t a matter of _personal desire_ , or _longing_.

**_Until now._ **

She couldn’t quite describe the pain she felt, the _anguish_ , upon facing the possibility that she might **_never_** see “the Pet”, again. It wasn’t _sufficient_ to supply that he was, for the better part of a few months, “her sole companion” – as a child, Mallory hadn’t been able to form _any_ secure attachments. Hadn’t been given the opportunity.

Her childhood had been a patchwork of “take her”, “no, I don’t want her; _you_ take her” and “she’s not worth the trouble – will **_somebody_** just take her?”. ( _Awesome,_ right?)

(The power of an adult to ruin a child’s life was **_severely_** underestimated.)

(With all this fuss about “respecting each other’s every decision” (even if it was a _ridiculous_ one), nowadays, you would think parent-less children would be safer, more likely to live a “happy” life. This was not so. Orphans were just as **_miserable_** now as they were back then.)

( _… better not to dwell_ , as her therapist always said.)

(Really, though, where _was_ he? She had finally thought to call him to ask about any upcoming appointments, but he hadn’t answered. And had never called back. This was five _weeks_ ago.)

She had digressed. The point was, Mallory had **_finally_** begun to form a connection with a living being that she thought she wouldn’t lose. _Stupidly enough_.

Reality could be such a **_prick_** , sometimes.

She had actually had something to look forward to, however temporarily. A living being who was happy to see her, who enjoyed spending time with her, who listened to her ramblings without zoning out ten seconds in, who, despite not being able to say a **_word_** to comfort her, tried its best to make sure she always knew it was there, when she was feeling worse for wear – this sort of _compassion_ , and _humane sympathy_ , was difficult to come across, even among other human beings.

So, it was **_difficult_** to deal with such a sudden blow.

The Pet was **_gone_** , and it probably wasn’t coming back. She remembered hearing somewhere that if someone was “lost” for more than 72 hours, chances were that they were **_never_** coming back. (Granted, it was in reference to _missing persons_ , but the concept was similar enough to dismiss the disparities.)

She kept thinking about its green eyes, its wide, unapologetic grin, its absent trot, the way it would suddenly allow itself to lose all weight and collapse into her (a _playful_ gesture (one she had come to find _endearing_ , and missed with all of her being)) – she couldn’t keep doing this to herself, she decided.

 _Yes, it sucked_ – the Pet was gone. She had no one else to turn to, for either grieving or companionship. She wasn’t even sure she _should_ be grieving – was the Pet **_dead_**? Was it hurt? Was it perfectly fine, or on a bloodthirsty frenzy? (She had a hard time resisting the urge to get up and pour herself a glass of _Fireball_ (cinnamon whiskey – _strong stuff, that_ ).)

(The last thing she could afford to do was get drunk. She had **_no idea_** what she was going to do, now, about the ever-present **_paranoia_**. About the knowledge that the homeless (?) man knew where she lived (and _someone else_ did, too, if that **_letter_** was anything to go by).)

 _But_ … what **_good_** did it do her to sit around fretting about it for hours-on-end?

She needed to catch up on her sleep, _desperately_. Or, if not, _at the very least_ , catch up on her work. There were two papers that needed to be outlined, another that needed to be edited, and a reading or two to complete to prepare for Monday’s class.

… she couldn’t even convince herself to get up from the couch.

She just kept thinking about the Pet, and its safety, and what she had witnessed it do to those… _admittedly-unpleasant_ men. (Even though she _still_ didn’t think such **_incredible violence_** had been **_necessary_**. (Although, now that she was thinking about it, would a _lesser_ degree of “hostility” have gotten the message across?))

_…_

_…_

She needed to work…

_…_

Mallory found herself eyeing the stack of articles, and binders, and empty takeout boxes.

***

She fell asleep to the recollection of those **_terrible_** **_red eyes_** , and the strange sensation of feeling not frightened, but _concerned_ , for the Hellhound’s safety.

And for once, she didn’t _bother_ to question her own “sanity” on the matter.

She was **_too tired_** to do so.

Her piles of paperwork lay forgotten on the coffee table, and remained neglected for the rest of the night.

***

Another fitful round of nightmares.

Even though Mallory had fallen asleep much _earlier_ than intended, her dreams were plagued by red, red eyes, gleaming white teeth, the homeless man’s uncanny grin, the illusion of **_emptiness_** behind those glasses of his…

**_The screams of strangers._ **

Large shadows in the night. Eyes that watched her from every corner of every room, a voice echoing, distorted, _murky_ , like trying to see through ten feet of water, **_“we see you”_** – and unfamiliar music that she had already begun to recognize, almost _fondly_.

( _Like the Devil keeping you company_ , she would later muse.)

In the morning, Mallory rubbed the sleep from her eyes, hating herself for letting herself be bullied out of a good night’s sleep by a complete stranger, and almost fell over the leg of her coffee table on her way up.

That was how she noticed it.

Flat. Oval in shape. Black, glowing purple along its ridges. _Almost like colored glass…_

But the light was all wrong. It was like the light, _itself_ , was violet.

(Which she supposed was _possible_.)

She blinked, trying to make sense of it, because no matter what angle she looked at it from, she had _no idea_ what it **_was_**. And she certainly didn’t remember putting it there.

( _Where did **this** come from…?_ )

Something inside of her prompted her to pick it up, although she could not explain to anyone “why”, if asked. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, or her never-ending curiosity.

Regardless, it did nothing in her hands. It sat still. She almost felt _disappointed_ , but didn’t know **_why_**. What had she expected, from a nonliving object?

Then, she saw the other “gift”.

Fear rushed, _uninvited_ , through her veins, like ice water. Frigid claws gripping her heart, tightly, choosing to toss aside the concept of “mercy”. It was another letter.

Penned in the same purple ink. Tainted by drops of an unidentifiable, shock-pink _liquid_.

The nearer she drew, the more she realized that the stench bombarding her nose was coming from said letter (likely directly from whatever that… “liquid” was).

It was an unfamiliar smell. Strange. _Uncanny_. She felt her hair standing on-edge, but couldn’t make out the reason for such a primitive sensation of “fear” to an _unknown substance_.

(She suspected that this was not “poison”.)

(… unless it _was_.)

(Though if someone had managed to get into her home ( ** _again_** (honestly, did her “security measures” mean **_nothing_**?)), it would have been a waste of time to bother smearing the letter with poison when it would have been _so-much-simpler_ to kill her during her moments of “intense vulnerability” (that was, while she slept).)

**_“Within the Gregorian month.”_ **

_…_

_…_

“ ** _What_**?” her eyebrows furrowed, but no matter how she tried to re-read it, or decipher it, she couldn’t make sense of it, on her own. So, she referred back to the world’s modern international database: “Google”.

Apparently, the meaning was simpler than she expected. The modern calendar was the “Gregorian” calendar, developed in the Vatican, also known as the “Western”, or “Christian”, calendar.

She hadn’t the _faintest_ _idea_ why anyone would choose to threaten her in such a **_peculiar_** manner, but then decided that it didn’t matter _why_ it was done the way it was done – she was fairly certain that it was a **_threat_** , and that was really all she cared about.

“Within the Gregorian month…?”

_What about it?_

Was… was something **_bad_** going to happen to her, then?

It was November.

…

Was she going to… was her life…?

She could already feel her heart clenching, and her teeth gritting.

Her body shaking.

Her brain wanted to tear itself out and throw itself down the nearest drain.

It looked like that course of action was being seconded by every other major (and “minor”) organ in her body. She could even feel her eyes welling up (to her own surprise).

She was in shock. She was _sure_ of it. She wasn’t screaming, or calling the police.

She just slumped to her knees, staring at the letters on the page until they began to blur.

Something cold dripped down her cheeks, and she realized, with a start, that she was _crying_. For the first time in years. **_Really_** **_crying_**.

The silent type. Which meant that she was _scared shitless_.

And _deeply upset_ ; filled with “anguish”.

All she could think about was how **_unfair_** this all was, because she had **_never_** done anything to deserve this shitty life, and _definitely_ not this shitty end. But what could _she_ do?

…

 ** _That was it_**. She had no other option. “Substantial evidence”, or not, Mallory Wentz had to go report this to the police, and _hope for the best_.

(And, if not, _request protection_ , at the very least.)

… which she would do, _later_.

She needed to get **_this_** out of her system, first. She couldn’t go out there _sobbing_ like this, looking like a broken mess. With dark circles under her eyes.

Even if she _was_ losing it, the last thing she needed was to make _anyone else_ aware of this, as well. (Though, at the rate _this_ was going, being told she was “crazy” would have been a **_relief_**.)

And if the police couldn’t (or _wouldn’t_ ) do anything… _what then?_

…

…

She would cross _that_ bridge when she got to it, she told herself, and allowed that thought to be the last one before she shut down, and broke down into heaving, terrified sobs.

… it felt **_good_** , _almost_ , to unload like this. (Even if the situation wasn’t _ideal_.)

(Then again, when had _any_ situation **_ever_** been “ideal”, for her?)

***

**_It wasn’t good enough._ **

She had been _meticulous_ , recorded everything she could remember about the incidents, their dates and times of occurrence, and had even collected the notes, the strange object…

… but it hadn’t been _good enough_. The results, that was.

It wasn’t that her account wasn’t “believable”. She didn’t have any photos of her “stalker(s)”, as they were being referred to, but she _did_ have vivid firsthand recollections of the homeless (?) man. (She wasn’t entirely certain who that _other_ man had been, the **_behemoth_** whom had initially referred to “the Pet” as such, and her memories of him were faint. So, she didn’t focus all that much on his descriptions other than to explain that she suspected there was _more than one_ “stalker”.)

The letters were _enough_ cause for alarm, she liked to think. The officer on-duty had pursed his lips while reading it, and then requested her permission to go “scour out the locations in question” (namely, _her home_ ).

She was asked to find someplace else to stay, someplace “safe”, until they could figure out what was going on. She had no one to turn to, _obviously_ , so the next best option was a “public” enough place – a hotel.

(Which she found _incredibly_ _ironic_ , considering that one of the aforementioned “experiences” had taken place in one. (Of course, at _that_ point, she had been less prepared. Less _alert_.))

The first thing she did was order takeout, and then, get anything else she needed (like her school supplies, various changes of clothing, essentials and toiletries, laptop and charger, cell phone charger, _etc_ …) – before promptly barricading the doorway with one of the room’s lighter cabinets.

( _… just in case_.)

(It wouldn’t be enough to keep _anyone else_ out, _no_ , but it **_would_** be enough to alert her to any intruders – and maybe, _just maybe_ , that five-second headstart would be enough to save her life…?)

(This was all because Mallory didn’t know if she could _really_ believe that the situation would be handled before the “promised date”. (Not to mention that she wasn’t even sure which “date” was the one in question. The letter had claimed it to be “within the Gregorian month” – but it could be **_any_** day, _really_ , within November. Which meant it could be _tomorrow_ , or _next week_. **_Or_** **_tonight_**.))

Needless to say, Mallory didn’t think she’d be getting any sleep, tonight.

***

Strangely enough, Mallory fell asleep earlier than expected – and _stayed_ asleep, a greater miracle, still. She woke up feeling refreshed; _energetic_ , even.

She could almost _hear_ her body thanking her profusely.

To keep up with the “act”, she made sure to stop by a quaint little diner and eat a _real_ breakfast. And she even drank water, instead of coffee. She almost **_forgot_** all about the **_horrifying_** **_year_** she’d been having – until she received a call from one of the officers, later that afternoon, in the midst of working on the second paper’s outline (having already completed the first, and finished editing and formatting the third).

They found **_nothing_** out of the ordinary, disturbingly enough. Not even a dented lock.

No chipped painting. No broken windows, or suspected foul play, of **_any_** kind.

 ** _Nothing_** to indicate that anything was “wrong”.

She wasn’t sure whether to feel _relieved_ or _frustrated_.

This either meant things were going to get **_worse_** , or that whoever it was ( _the homeless (?) man?_ ) had backed off. She doubted it was the latter.

She was beginning to believe that whoever was doing this was just… _above_ _the law_ , somehow.

( _How could they leave **no** traces_ _behind_? _Not even on the letter_ …?)

( _No DNA…_?)

( _Did they wear gloves_?)

( ** _Every. Single. Time?_** )

Mallory began to grudgingly admit that maybe whoever was doing this was _cleverer_ than the “average stalker”. And that maybe she really _was_ fucking **_screwed_**.

Of course, the officers went through the motions, promised to “keep looking into the situation”, but she _knew_ that **_nothing_** would come of it. Something inside of her told her it was no use.

(And Mallory could tell they weren’t going to try “very hard”, either. “ _Gee_ , I have no idea **_why_** , though,” was her bitter remark, under her own breath.)

That had been hours ago.

The outline being completed, and a reading having been finished, she had decided to treat herself to a “brief evening stroll”. Which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t her _brightest_ decision.

( ** _Really_** , though, she was getting _fed up_ with being cooped up inside, for **_days-on-end_** , in fear of what _might_ or _might not_ happen. She needed fresh air – she was a **_human being_** , after all, with **_human_** needs.)

She was scheduled to go back to her own place two days from now.

The police were going to leave the next day, but she wanted to give herself _ample_ time to prepare herself for the return of the _constant paranoia_ that was now associated with that apartment.

(Which was a _shame_ , really. The place, itself, wasn’t in a “bad neighborhood”, or anything.)

(She had once **_adored_** that apartment…)

So, here she was, feeling, for the _first time_ in **_months_** , “slightly better”.

Minding her own business. Basking in the light _pitter-patter_ of rain upon her umbrella, and around her, _plink-plink-plinking_ onto the sidewalk. The rushing of rainwater, and leaves, down towards the streets’ drains.

 _That_ was when she saw him. From behind, she almost didn’t recognize him. But then, he turned his head, just the _slightest_ bit, and she caught a glimpse of those black lenses. And that familiar, chilling grin of his.

He didn’t seem to notice her, not right away.

That gave _her_ enough time to notice… **_him_**.

There was a figure standing before the homeless (?) man, a **_shadow_** of a man, not so large as to raise alarm, but with enough of a **_presence_** that she felt _almost instantaneously_ intimidated, even from this relatively “safe” distance.

She took a few more steps, unsure of what her next move would (or _should_ ) be, given that they were standing close enough to the road that she couldn’t _possibly_ pass them by without being seen by at least **_one_** of them.

(And the streets were… _mostly empty_. One stray car, here and there.)

(But not enough of a _crowd_ to help her feel **_secure_** in passing those two by.)

(Again, perhaps an “evening stroll” hadn’t been her _smartest_ decision.)

She eventually came to a pause, but not before **_whoever it was_** spotted her.

She was alarmed to note that his eyes almost looked… **_red_**.

Emphasized moreso by the otherwise **_impenetrable_** **_darkness_** surrounding him.

They locked “eyes” ( _those **can’t** be his real eyes_ … (was she… was she _seeing_ things…?)), and he maintained the shared “gaze” for maybe a moment, _perhaps_ _two_ , before turning his back on them both.

 _Abruptly_.

And he was **_gone_** just as suddenly as she had noticed him.

And _that_ was when his companion, the homeless (?) man, turned around.

He looked **_absolutely thrilled_** to see her.

(If that _unpleasantly wide_ grin was anything to go by.)

“ ** _How_** **_strange_**. We were just discussing your fate, and **_here you are_** , as if summoned by the mere mention of your name.”

(She didn’t even _bother_ asking why he knew that much. If he knew where she _lived_ , she doubted that he wouldn’t be **_intensely familiar_** with her _name_.)

“ ** _Fascinating_** ,” she drawled, choosing to deliberately ignore the way her heart beat picked up, substantially, at the reminder that she _definitely_ wasn’t safe, right now. (Or, **_ever_** , really. ( _Not anymore_ , thanks to this guy and his “friends”.))

“It’s so **_peculiar_** ,” he tilted his head. “It’s almost like you were… **_looking_** for me?”

She rose a single brow. The suggestion, _itself_ , was **_hilarious_** – joke, or not.

And she said as much.

“ _Ha-ha_. **_Wow_**. You’re surprisingly good at this _comedian_ thing,” she made sure to emphasize how _totally-not-hilarious-at-all_ he was, by way of contrasting with her _actual_ spoken words.

( _The fine art of sarcasm: not a linguistic device, but a lifestyle._ )

(… **_wow_**. That _definitely_ should’ve been written on her birth certificate.)

“You say _much_ , but mean the _complete opposite_ ,” he observed. He seemed not to understand this. “Just as could be expected from a **_liar_**.” Or, he had just **_completely_** misunderstood her.

“How would **_you_** know if I was a liar, or not?” she shifted the weight of the umbrella from one hand to the other, placing her free hand on her hip. Expression the _picture_ of exasperation. “Seems to me like you’re jumping to conclusions.”

“It’s in your **_nature_** ,” he insisted. “If you expect me to take your self-proclaimed ‘honesty’ at _face value_ …”

“I never said I was the ‘most honest person’ you’d ever meet, either,” she disagreed. “I’m just not that _significant_ of a liar. Not enough for it to be my **_defining_ _trait_**.”

His expression shifted. He looked almost amused.

“ ** _Look at you_** , vouching for your own sense of ‘integrity’. It’s almost **_charming_** , coming from someone like yourself.”

“ ** _Tell me_** , then, what ‘kind of person’ am I?”

He paused, once again at a loss for words.

“Since you know **_so much_** about me, that is,” she challenged, unable to keep a sliver of mockery out of her tone. “ ** _Please_** , I’m _dying_ to know. Evidently, I don’t know _myself_ as well as **_you_** do.”

This time, when he next spoke, he no longer appeared to be amused. In fact, he seemed almost… **_angry_**. Annoyed. Exasperated. “ ** _Are you having fun?_** ”

“ _Not yet_ ,” she quipped, tone near-taunting. She was _surprised_ to find herself fighting back a grin. (Which didn’t make sense to her. (It probably wasn’t a _good_ idea to mock someone who had already threatened her, _to her own face_ , more than once. **_Especially_** when she was alone, without a means of defense, or without anyone else around to ask for help (should things get… _messy_ ). Was she _losing_ _it_ , then? “Joshing around” with a concrete threat?)) “But I’m getting there.”

“You must _really_ have a **_death wish_** ,” was his response, and although the words, themselves, and his tone-of-voice, were enough to give her _descendants_ chills, his grin reappeared. She had _every reason_ to take that as another threat, and she **_did_** , somewhere in the back of her head, and, **_again_** , his voice made something inside of her want to _shrivel up and die_ – but at the same time, it was such a… “charming” gesture, that she found herself wondering if they wouldn’t have _gotten along_ , under different circumstances.

(Which promptly made her wonder, again, if she really _wasn’t_ losing it.)

“I have to admit: I almost **_admire_** that about you. Your _bravado_.”

“Interesting. I’ve been told that it would be my undoing.”

“Oh, it _will_ be,” he stated, with an air of casualty that she swore **_no one else_** , no murderer, no bully, **_nobody_** , would **_ever_** be able to mimic with _half-as-much_ finesse, under the current circumstances (that is, _threatening her very **existence**_ ). “But it’s not such a bad way to go. **_Really_**. I think that in your **_last moments_** , I might even consider letting you go _earlier_ than usual. **_Just for that_**. It’s not often that we come across a **_traitor_** with a good sense of humor.”

“Oh, my – _for_ _me?_ You _shouldn’t_.”

He made a sound that could be a laugh. Or a cough. She wasn’t sure.

“Keep it up, and I just might **_change my mind_** ,” he warned, though he was still grinning, so she couldn’t be too sure that he _meant_ it.

(Then again, if _that_ was the case, this man had **_never_** displayed an _ounce_ of sincerity towards her during the entirety of the time they had “known” (?) one another. Which she suspected was simply _not true_.)

She didn’t know **_what_** prompted her to say it (exhaustion? Lack of the ability to muster up _concern_ over the consequences? ( ** _Sincerity_**? (as _unlikely_ as that was))), but before he could say something else, or _do_ something else (which she admitted was _probably_ part of the reason she spoke up (since he had taken a step, or two, towards her, during the time they had spent “conversing” (she wondered if he thought she wouldn’t _notice_ , but then decided that he probably wasn’t **_too_** concerned about that))), she found herself declaring, _matter-of-factly_ , tone as level as if her own words meant **_nothing_** to her (which she wasn’t sure was _true_ (… the least said about **_that_** , the better)):

“You know, if both of our lives had been _different_ , and if we hadn’t met like **_this_** , I’m _almost_ _certain_ that we might have been able to get along.”

He paused, again, and _this_ time, she could actually _see_ , from her position, his posture becoming rigid. Limbs tensing. “… **_oh_**?” he asked, voice softer than she had ever heard it. Reminding her, faintly, of the time he had leaned in to ask her to _take care of the Pet_ for him.

“ _Oh_ ,” she echoed. And began to approach him, _slowly_ , shifting the weight of her umbrella, once more. He didn’t move a muscle, not even to say anything else.

She couldn’t tell _what_ was on his mind. For the first time since they’d met, she was _actually_ **_interested_** in knowing what was going on behind those shades. His mouth was drawn into a tight line, and the last she saw of him that night was his back, as she walked away.

(But it wouldn’t be the _last time_ she **_ever_** saw him.

 _Not by a long shot._ )

***

Mallory shouldn’t have been surprised.

She didn’t know _what_ she was expecting, really.

(Although she _definitely_ knew what she was **_hoping_** for: _a little fucking peace and quiet, for once_.)

She had returned home later than expected. She’d been planning on going back during the weekend, but she had gotten swept up in her work, and in preparing for classes the following week – so, when she _did_ make it back home, it was mid-week.

**_Mid-month._ **

No sign of anything “strange” since she had last seen the homeless (?) man.

She suspected that must’ve given her some kind of “false sense of security”, if she had actually been **_surprised_** by what she came back to. Everything had appeared “fine”, from a distance.

But then, she had noticed it. Something _cracked_ under her sneaker, and she’d set down her bags, curious. Glass littered her back porch, and she could see, right-away, where it had come from: _the kitchen window_.

Which was **_shattered_**.

Her heart beat picked up, for the **_thousandth_** **_time_** since this **_horrible year_** had begun, and she found herself feeling disoriented, _terrified_ , unable to push down her tremors. The letter’s contents came to mind, slammed into the back of her eyelids, full-force.

_“Within the Gregorian month.”_

She’d been a **_fool_** to think she was safe.

The lack of activity didn’t mean it was _over_. It just meant that this whole damn thing was a **_fucking game_** to “them”, whoever “they” were. The _true_ terror didn’t lie in the violence – but in letting the threat sit in the victim’s mind, letting it _rot_ in there, letting it tear away at their _resistance_ , at their _strength_ , until there was nothing left but mind-numbing _terror_ , _paranoia_ , and _hopelessness_. It was the **_perfect_** strategy.

Corner them, freak them out a little, make them cry and lose sleep, retreat, wait until they were out of their **_fucking minds_** , and come back in to finish the job when they had lost all hope of being _saved_ , or of getting away with their lives. ( _Those sick, miserable, **fucking** **bastards**_ , Mallory thought to herself, now, upon realizing that this was _exactly_ what they had done.)

Mallory made a split-decision to “go down swinging”. (Or, **_at the_** **_very least_** , to do enough damage to be able to escape.) She pushed open the kitchen door, tentatively, umbrella clutched tightly between her fingers, eyes roaming the dark expanse of hallway, trying desperately to adjust to the sudden drop in visible light – and fell, **_hard_**.

Cursing, and pulling herself away, she opened her eyes, blearily, grasping at her aching nose. And was surprised to see a familiar pair of “docile”, green eyes. Matted dark fur. Its tail began _thump-thump-thump_ ing as soon as their eyes made direct contact, and it emitted an overjoyed, _yip_ ping sound, itself.

She couldn’t find it within herself, suddenly, to _care_ about the broken window, or the ridiculously ungrounded threats she had been receiving, or the homeless (?) man, or whether or not he actually _was_ homeless, or her schoolwork, or the possibility that she might lose her _job_ – all she could do was cry out in relief, and pull the Pet in close, arms wrapped around it in the sincerest, _warmest_ embrace she had **_ever_** mustered for another living being.

The tears were back, from all those nights ago – except, _this time_ , she was **_laughing_** , too.

Laughing, and crying, and thanking whatever deity was up there watching over her _pitiful_ life.

For once, that same deity had thrown the dog a bone, _metaphorically speaking_ , instead of kicking her when she was down. _The Pet had come back._

**_It had come back._ **

She could distinctly hear it make a noise of contentment, before settling into her arms, and letting its weight drop down into her lap. She didn’t have the heart to pull away.

The Pet was **_alive_**. The rest could wait.

***

Mallory spent a good part of that afternoon running her fingers through the Pet’s matted fur, untangling clots of ungroomed hair – and _that_ was how she came across it, again.

That same strange **_liquid_** that she had only seen _once_ , _twice_ , or _thrice_ before.

Under the light of the bathroom, she found herself watching as the strange **_substance_** mixed in with the bath water, near- _glowing_ in the shadows of her curtains.

_What… **is** that?_

The Pet didn’t seem to mind being bathed. She hadn’t known _how_ it would react, and had broached the subject carefully, _slowly_ , to help it feel like it _had_ a choice, to let it know that it _could_ leave, if it _wanted_ to.

It didn’t make any moves to resist, or run away. The Pet sat in the tub, _animated_ , but _cooperative_. Yipping, near- _cheerful_ , nudging along her fingers and nuzzling into the palm of her hand, whenever she passed it over his face.

She couldn’t get it out of her head: his terrifying visage, dripping with blood, feral red eyes colder than stone – it just didn’t make _sense_. She couldn’t make the _connection_ between whatever **_that_** was and… **_this_**.

…

She couldn’t do this, anymore. It wasn’t _fair_ of her, to suspect the Pet of being _capable_ of hurting her, when it had never made **_any_** moves to do so. It _could_ have, all those times they had been alone. She had been vulnerable before the Pet many, **_many_** times. And yet, it had only ever kept her company, and done its best to _comfort_ her – and when it _had_ crossed the line, it had done so in _defense_ of her.

The Pet had been more loyal to their relationship, to their _bond_ , to **_her_** , than anyone else in her **_entire_** **_life_**. And it _deserved_ to be trusted, to be _appreciated_ , to be _cared_ for, in response, rather than to be reciprocated with _fear_ , or _suspicion_.

Having made that decision, Mallory leaned in close, giving the Pet ample opportunity to move away, and pressed a gentle, careful kiss against its wet nose. It promptly stilled, and then, _followed_ her as she attempted to retreat, pressing its nose against her face, once more, before…

… its tongue pressed against her face.

_Smack-dab in the middle of it._

She reacted with a mixture of disgust and laughter.

“That is some **_seriously_** bad breath,” she remarked, trying to press back against its legs as it whimpered, pressing forward for more affection. She eventually acquiesced, cupping its face in her palms and pressing another kiss to its forehead.

Before ruffling his (wet) hair with her (equally soaking) fingers.

“You are _too_ precious,” she noted. It responded with an eager thump of its tail.

Splashing water all over her.

She sighed, not-quite-exasperated.

“It’s good to have you back, buddy.” Her voice lowered, now. “I actually _missed_ you, you know?”

It made a noise in response, almost as if it understood.

“Don’t you **_ever_** run off like that, again, okay? I’m not fast enough to keep up,” she prodded at its right hind leg. It yipped, again, and pressed its face against her shoulder.

“ _I know, I know._ You’re probably starving. Let’s get you out of here, and get something to eat. Sound like a plan?” she wrung out the soaking rag in her hands, giving the Pet an expectant look, a quirk of the eyebrow.

_Yip!_

“I’m taking that as a ‘yes’.”

_Splash!_

…

“… that’s enough of that.”

_Splash!_

“ ** _Seriously_** , quit – _pfft_ – stop it! I’m being serious! _Really!_ **_Ugh_** – _that was my favorite shirt_ …”

***

That night, Mallory Wentz fell asleep with her arms around the Pet, sitting on the couch, binders open on the coffee table, stains from a spilled coffee cup or two across her ( _once-adored_ ) carpeting. For the first time that year (and, really, _her entire life_ ), she felt **_safe_**.

 ** _Really_** **_safe_**.

She didn’t want to think about it being a “false” sense of security.

She didn’t want to ponder the _worst-case-scenarios_ of the Pet’s “true loyalties”.

For once, Mallory just wanted to curl up with something that _cared_ about her, and feel _loved_ , and not worry about the “implications” of it. For once, Mallory didn’t _want_ to care about anything other than feeling _happy_ , no matter how “temporary” it was.

( _Might as well enjoy the good times while they last, right?_ )

(Even now, no matter what happened, or what _would_ happen, Mallory still thought that would be one of her **_best_** memories, **_ever_** , hands-down.)

( _Of course_ , life had a way of breaking its own record(s), she would later learn.)

( _For better or for worse…_ )

***

“What… what **_is_** this?”

This was the _third_ time, within that week, **_alone_** , that the Pet had returned from one of its mysterious “unknown-destination” trots (what was the _point_ in asking about it, if the Pet couldn’t actually respond? (and she didn’t have the heart to restrain it from participating in said “trots” – the Pet had been through _a lot_ , and so had **_she_** ; the **_least_** it had earned for itself was some God-forsaken **_freedom_** )) covered in that unknown “liquid substance”.

It never really “dried”, not _permanently_ (among _other_ things (like, for example, that strange **_smell_** that she couldn’t place, as well as its unfamiliar **_texture_** )), and no matter _how_ she tried to clean the Pet, there was _always_ some of it left over after she’d towel-dried the creature off.

(She had already had to discard _five_ towels because of said “substance”. (Which stained. And was a **_bitch_** to scrub out.))

But what else could she do? No matter _what_ she did, she couldn’t seem to make the Pet understand that the “substance” was _unwelcome_. It would look at her with those uncannily-intelligent green eyes, and _yip_ , sometimes, depending on its mood – but it would _always_ come back, a few days later, with that same strange “substance” matted into its thick, coarse fur.

She was beginning to think that “it” owed her an explanation – but, **_of course_** , it couldn’t explain itself if it _wanted_ to.

Because, **_obviously_** , animals _couldn’t_ communicate in the English language.

(And, apparently, neither could **_Hellhounds_**. (Which debunked most Hellhound myths and legends, straightaway. (If _that’s_ what the Pet was, after all.)))

And, _again_ , like every other time before, the Pet just looked into her face, and seemed almost to **_grin_** at her, as it yipped. _Miserable bastard._

“…”

It continued staring. And yipped once more.

She sighed, knowing that it was better to “pick her battles”.

(And also, that there was _no point_ in putting up a fight about this topic, anymore.)

(And probably never _had_ been.)

“To the shower you go –” she didn’t even finish her sentence – the Pet was already racing away, towards the upstairs bathroom. Sometimes, she wondered if the Pet _did_ understand what she was scolding him about, and just **_enjoyed_** taking baths too much to _stop_.

(Which painted a sad picture about its previous amount of exposure to “bathing”.)

( ** _Ahem_** … rather than _sympathizing_ with the Pet, it was best to clean him before he made a mess of her bedroom. And of her bathroom. And of _itself_ , in general. (For whatever inexplicable reason, it seemed to particularly _enjoy_ frolicking in the dusty, and **_dirty_** , upstairs storage closet.))

_Crash._

( _Too late_.)

Mallory forced herself up to her feet, body groaning in protest as she resigned herself to another hour of bathing, drying, and feeding the Pet. As well as, perhaps, another half-hour spent tidying up whatever it had ( _not-so-subtly_ ) destroyed.

Despite that, she couldn’t fight the grin that stole over her lips.

( _Sometimes, you had to sacrifice “peace and quiet” for a (semi-)eventful life._

 _And, especially, for the sake of **good company**._ )

***

Well, at the very least, Mallory could _honestly_ say that feeding the Pet had stopped being a **_living nightmare_**. Whether it was this particular brand, or _whatever_ the Pet was finding (or, “catching”) out there, it appeared to be well-fed – without the added discomfort of a chronic stomachache.

Instead of spending all night whimpering, or _squirming_ , it would curl up beside her on her bed (she had never _seriously_ contemplated making it sleep on the floor (one look at its face, and at its “sad” little eyes, and she had caved in to the clamoring of her heart, and invited it up onto the bed with her (it had appeared surprised, and almost _hesitant_ – but after three or so weeks of sleeping beside her, wrapped up in her  arms, it had begun to lose tension during the night, and had even been falling asleep around the same time _she_ did, instead of spending four or five hours on “high-alert”))), with a cheerful little _yip_ , and tuck its head into the curve of her shoulder, before falling blissfully into a deeper sleep than she had **_ever_** witnessed in anybody (or any _thing_ ) else (which, truthfully, often prompted the same from _her_ , as well).

Needless to say, these last few nights had been the best of her life.

And every day was greeted with far more energy, and willingness to “do her best”, than ever before. And Mallory could **_really_** attribute it to the Pet, and feel confident in knowing that she had _finally_ begun to plant the seeds of a “home” that she had **_never_** had the pleasure of having before, prior to meeting the Pet.

***

She was at the supermarket, making her “Thanksgiving” rounds (which she had _rarely_ celebrated, before (she liked to think, though, that one had to celebrate when **_good things_** happened – and making a loyal companion of the Pet? _Definitely_ one of those things “worth celebrating”, and “feeling grateful for” (especially since she didn’t have a whole lot of _anything else_ to feel “happy” about).)), when she felt it.

That penetrating, “you’re not alone”, likely-imagined “stare”.

She turned, shooting wary glances over her shoulders ( _both_ of them), but since she spotted nothing, she turned back around. Completely distracted from her original task of debating between yams or sweet potatoes. (Since she didn’t want to try her luck at affording _both_ – the turkey, itself, cost more than she _usually_ liked to spend on food.)

The feeling returned, stronger than ever before.

Something gripped at her heart. _Panic_. Or, maybe, **_fear_**. Confusion.

Disorientation.

( _Wait, that can’t affect the heart_ …)

Nonetheless, it wasn’t a _pleasant_ sensation. She turned, once more, fighting the temptation to run out into the streets, screaming, like a madwoman. And **_immediately_** regretted it.

(Especially since the “madwoman” impulse only became stronger.)

This time, panic really _did_ grip her heart.

Like ice-cold claws. (Or talons. ( _Now isn’t the time for verbal nit-picking._ ))

**_Red eyes._ **

She couldn’t believe it. She almost thought she might be having a nightmare.

And that at any moment, she might wake up to the unconscious sniffles and snorts of the Pet.

 ** _But no._** She blinked. They were _definitely_ still there.

 ** _Red eyes._** Just… _watching_ her. Unblinking.

Her grip tightened on her basket, but when she backed away, right into the display of yams (maybe to call for help, or to run as fast as she could in the _opposite_ direction), they closed.

And she blinked. They didn’t open, again. She blinked, once more, twice, _three_ times.

 _Nothing._ Nothing but trees, and sidewalks, and parked cars.

Nothing but the night sky full of stars, and a cheese-wedge moon.

 _This is the **last time**_ , she decided, _that I do **any** late-night shopping._

She couldn’t help shaking her head, and laughing at herself, and feeling **_stupid_** – because, _really,_ _red eyes?_ **_God_**. She had been seeing one-too-many horror movies, huh?

(She decided not to acknowledge that the Pet, _itself_ , had flashed **_red eyes_** at her, the night of the… _unspeakable event_. She’d probably been imagining things, in her sleep-deprived, panicked state.)

( _Yeah. Everything’s fine. In through the nose, out through the mouth._ )

( _You’re fucking **losing** it, Mal. Losing it **real** good._ )

She laughed, aloud, to try and reassure herself. It worked. Several people nearby gave her strange looks, but she ignored them (as usual), feeling relieved. Everything felt “normal”, again.

She’d just been imagining things.

That’s all it had been: _an overactive imagination_.

(And paranoia. And caffeine addiction. And burnout.)

( _Fuck, if this gets any **worse** , you’re going to need a therapist, lady._)

She consoled herself with self-deprecating thoughts, and moved on, humming, mind refocused on the important debate of _yams_ _versus_ _sweet potatoes_.

(And the memory of red, red eyes stored in the back of her mind… _just in case_.)

***

Maybe _that_ was her biggest mistake. Feeling “comfortable”, or “safe”.

Maybe Mallory could never **_truly_** be “happy” – not if the universe was only looking to **_destroy_** this tiny bit of “joy” any time that she grasped it.

And, maybe, a _worse_ mistake was trying to move past this knowledge. Trying to believe things could actually be “better”. The universe didn’t **_like_** “happiness”, or “joy”, or even “love” – its sole purpose was to destroy **_anything_** worth having.

And she’d been a fool to think otherwise.

 

**14.**

A smile was playing on her lips the night that her life, as she knew it, **_ended_**.

She hated to _reiterate_ , but she really **_had_** been a fool to forget about that crucial warning.

“ _Within the Gregorian month.”_

(As she would become quick to realize, no threat issued by these “people” was ever anything _but_ a promise. She had trusted that the police could take care of it ( _to an extent_ ), but now, she was beginning to believe that nothing **_anyone_** ever did could spare her from this **_horrifying_** fate.)

She was taking a stroll. **_Alone_**.

_Mistake number one._

It was the middle of the night, and she’d decided to take a fairly-desolate route, populated only by the rare car, or two. No other person was in sight, not on foot.

_Mistake number two._

It was beginning to pour, and she didn’t have an umbrella, and now, her clothes were soaked through. Her shoes uneven on the pavement.

 _Mistake number four._ (Mostly because, since she was _freezing_ , and _uncomfortable_ , and _hating herself_ , she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings. Not as closely as she _should_ have, all things considered. ( _Mistake number five_ – the **_fatal_** one.))

She hadn’t been _planning_ to leave the house, that night. She had been far too comfortable snuggled up with the Pet, watching rerun-after-rerun of her favorite sitcom, and thinking about her upcoming assignments.

And about work.

Then, she’d remembered that she needed to buy bread and eggs for breakfast tomorrow. And instead of waiting until the morning to drive there, since her car wasn’t cooperating ( _when did it **ever**?_ ), she had made the stupid mistake ( _number infinity_ ) of leaving the house, **_in the middle of the night_** , to buy bread-and- _fucking_ -eggs.

(She sure hoped the eggs tasted like a **_slice of an angel’s tit_** , itself. That was the _only_ way she could think to justify her own **_stupidity_**. Anything less would be unacceptable.)

She’d been so preoccupied (with thoughts of the freezing rain, and _why hadn’t she brought an umbrella – **why**?_ ) that she hadn’t noticed that she wasn’t alone, anymore.

It was only after the _third_ block walked in the direction of her apartment that she noticed someone was following her. And this time, when she turned around, she saw them, again: **_red eyes._**

Only _this_ time, they didn’t vanish. Or close.

No matter how hard, or how many times, she blinked.

Eyebrows creasing in concern, and, maybe, _yes_ , a tiny bit of **_fear_** , she turned back around. Trying to act as _casual_ as possible. It wasn’t too far from her home, now – she could make it.

(Is what she told herself.)

(And she was **_wrong_**.)

 _That_ was when she spotted him: the homeless (?) stranger. Sitting alone, on a bench that lined the sidewalk directly to her left. His head was bowed. She contemplated crossing the street, and then, that’s when _he_ looked right at _her_.

**_Directly into her face._ **

It almost felt like they were making _eye contact_.

(And they _could’ve_ been. She had no way of knowing, _for sure_.)

And he grinned, then. A terrible, **_terrible_** grin.

She paused, _finally_ , coming to a complete stop. And turning, once again. The figure behind her was gone, but she didn’t feel any better to know it. Her heart was beginning to pick up, **_thundering_** in her chest, demanding to be set free so that it could flee this… _situation_.

She found herself regretting having come out, but it was already **_too late_** to remedy the “situation”. She hadn’t made out a figure to those “red eyes” – and she couldn’t make out whether they were _real_ , or an _illusion_ induced by her paranoia.

**_“It’s time.”_ **

She turned, once more, and was startled to see that he was standing, now, and was beginning to inch his way forward, in her direction. Gaze focused **_completely_** on her.

She didn’t know why, or how to explain the feeling – but even though he was the only person she could _see_ , she felt a crushing weight on her heart, on her head, on her limbs – like she was surrounded. Like she was truly, utterly **_fucked_**.

It was the **_worst_** feeling she had ever experienced in her **_life_**.

“What?” she managed to ask.

(And couldn’t find it within herself to _care_ about the way her voice wavered. A dead give-away to her creeping _doubt_ , and _paranoia_ , and _terror_.)

(She had **_every right_** to be “pathetic”, right now. This was the culmination of everything she had been **_dreading_** , since the first hint of something being “not quite right”.)

(And she had a distinct feeling that even if she _had_ done everything differently, the results would _still_ have been the same.)

“You remember, don’t you?” he tilted his head, then, and came to a stop directly before her.

She took a step back, completely committed to following her gut, _this_ time around.

(She never had, and _that’s_ how she had gotten herself into this situation, she firmly believed.)

“Our warning,” he said, with a click of the tongue, as if she were some naughty child being reprimanded for an insignificant grievance. “You ** _really_** should have paid attention.”

She couldn’t think of anything to say, for the life of her. She could only hope against _hope_ against **_hope_** that he was **_wrong_** , and that he was **_delusional_** (and so was _she_ ).

“You know – we’ve decided to give you a head start,” he continued, casually, “making conversation”. “But you really _are_ wasting your opportunity by deciding to talk to _me_ , instead.”

“ ** _Opportunity_** _?_ For _what_?”

“Oh, to enjoy maybe your last, _let’s see_ – five or six kliks of life? I would say?”

( _What?_ )

( _What was **that**? What did that even **mean**? “Five or six clicks?”_ )

“I – uh, _what_?”

“Go on, then,” he insisted, and actually stepped to the side. With a wide flourish of the arm. “You’re making this **_too_** **_easy_** , and Tarn won’t _like_ having had to come all this way for an **_easy kill_**.”

( _Oh, forgive **me**_ , she found herself snapping in response… inside the safety of her own head, **_of course_**. (Something told her that mouthing off, _now_ , wouldn’t be the **_best_** choice.))

Instead of responding, she turned her head, looking around, feeling her skin beginning to tighten, the hair standing straight up, muscles tense, everything on-edge, _waiting_ … **_waiting_** …

The homeless (?) man’s smile was beginning to widen.

“Are you _nervous_? Don’t worry – I **_did_** promise to end you, myself, didn’t I? Well, they’ve already agreed to our **_little_** **_arrangement_**.” His arm dropped, and he took another step forward.

She was so preoccupied with searching the streets for any other signs of life that her skeleton almost climbed out of its “cage” when she felt cold, foreign fingers brushing against the damp skin of her jaw. This time, she was _sure_ that their eyes made direct contact.

“ ** _Don’t look so scared_** ,” he cooed, tone a cruel mockery of “concern”, or “comfort”. Even standing this close, she _still_ couldn’t see anything past his glasses. **_Nothing_**. Nothing but black. It wasn’t exactly _encouraging_ , considering the situation. “It’ll all be **_over_** before you know it. You’ll be strapped in tight, so you can trust me when I tell you that my **_technique_** will provide **_maximum coverage_**.” He broke into a fit of giggles. “I wouldn’t recommend you struggling against me, though. I tend to get… **_excited_**.”

She backed away, abruptly, eyes darting around, still seeing **_nothing_** , trying to reassure herself that maybe he _was_ just crazy (not that said thought was any more _comforting_ ). Of course, this didn’t _change_ anything. She watched him, warily, as she crossed the street in two, three bounds, and then, she broke into a run.

 ** _And_** **_didn’t_** **_stop_** , once she’d started. She didn’t look back, again.

( _Mistake number six_.)

(And so that was how, for the **_thousandth_** time in her short, **_miserable_** life, Mallory Wentz came to the conclusion that her sense of “luck” was _absolutely legendary_ in its ability to **_screw her over_**. ( ** _Every. Single. Time_**.))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, everyone?
> 
> That's right -- this lovely lady.
> 
> It took me so, so incredibly long to work on this -- and even longer to edit and proofread it. I finished it late in the night, and I figured this could be an early Christmas present for those of you who are enjoying the wild ride.
> 
> After this one is one more interlude, to catch us all up and tie in the prologue, before I begin leading you through the present.
> 
> It's gonna be lit, guys. ^^ lolol I'm psyched!
> 
> Maybe you can have fun with this little tale, even if Mallory Wentz, herself, is hating every minute of it.
> 
> And don't worry -- nothing ever stays bad. It always gets better -- even if it doesn't look like it will.
> 
> And Mallory is no exception to this rule. Sure, it doesn't get better in the "traditional" sense -- she isn't saved by some knight in shining armor -- but she can think her way out of this. She's smart enough. And maybe life is all about encountering happiness in the most unexpected of places, in the darkest of times, with the strangest of peoples.
> 
> After all, it's just like Tracy McConnell said: "Funny how sometimes you just find things."
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter!


	8. 03.2| Second Chances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory Wentz reflects back on her life, or lack thereof, and on the "opportunity" presented to her.
> 
> Is it better to just give up, now, to avoid the risk of being hurt by her own stupid hope, and faith, in the future?
> 
> Or is it better to fight with everything she's got, to try and see this through, try and give herself a second chance?
> 
> What would you do? Would you take the leap? Would you dare to confront the unknown, and give yourself a chance to make up for living like a ghost? To find your purpose under the guise of someone else's?
> 
> This is the scariest thing she's ever done -- and, she thinks, the first one worth doing: fighting to survive.
> 
> ... right?

“To combat death you don't need much of a life, just one that isn't yet finished.”

\- Herta Müller, _The Hunger Angel_

**The Final Interlude: Playing Catch-Up.**

She really _did_ try her best – and she made it much farther than she _thought_ she would, initially.

When she’d turned her back on the homeless (?) man, she’d assumed _that was that_.

She wouldn’t make it two steps, and would be taken down by some awful, unknown **_man_** (or _creature_ ) – and that would be the end of her story. Someone would find her remains in the morning, or maybe two weeks from now, and _nobody_ would have **_any idea_** what had happened to her.

There would be a short “investigation”, but only for the sake of pretense.

She had no one who _cared_ enough to insist on “closure”, after all – no family who needed answers, who demanded “justice”. She had **_always_** been alone, all her life; and that’s how she would die.

But somehow, she made it out alive. By some twist of fate, she was able to “talk” her way out of an immediate, brutal **_death_**. But for how long would this “safety” last?

How long would she last before they grew weary of waiting?

She had to be realistic – there was almost **_no way_** out of this.

She was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and the rock was closing in – _fast_.

She couldn’t even understand _why_ she’d bothered to argue back – after all, what else was there to look forward to? She’d always known she would never get where she _wanted_ to be. Life didn’t just “work out”, not for Mallory Wentz.

…

At the same time, though, maybe it had been the folly of the “hope” that she’d begun to notice within herself, during the past few days, or maybe she wasn’t as _ready_ to die as she’d always thought – maybe she really _was_ afraid of death – because she had tried to claw her way out of an early grave, at the last minute – and her own, pure **_resolve_** had been what had extended its hand downwards to pull her up.

She really _had_ begun to think that she could do it, she could _make_ it, she could **_be_** **_something_** other than a ghost. And the only way to make sure was to give herself a second chance.

If she had needed a **_horrifying threat_** , and a reluctantly-taken “new purpose”, to push her out of the fog she’d been living in all of her life, then **_so be it_**. With that determination, she’d made a ( _probably literal_ ) pact with the devil.

 ** _And she’d gotten out alive_**. Now, it was up to _her_ to see how long that lasted.

Of course, this second chance had come with a rocky beginning – she had no one to trust, no one to depend on, and no one to confide in. The Pet wasn’t who, or _what_ , she’d stupidly allowed herself to _believe_ it was. Knowing what she did, and knowing that she knew very little, _indeed_ , she was expected to fight for her own life, to prove her own innocence.

In the strangest way, this was **_irony_** at work. Life’s purest irony.

A student of the law, interested in championing for the people, had to _earn_ her right to do so by fighting her own case in a pseudo-courtroom. If she lost, she would pay with her **_life_**.

And if she won? She got to live. _But at what price?_

Someone else would have to **_die_** , in her place.

She wasn’t sure how to feel about that – she was too tired, too jittery, too out-of-her- ** _fucking_** -mind, to really consider the implications of the “deal” she’d just been backed into. But she was sure, somewhere, beneath the haze of _“I’m alive, I’m alive, I can’t believe I’m not fucking **dead** ”_, that she was doing the wrong thing, by agreeing to turn on someone else like that to preserve her own life.

But… what _else_ could she do? She hadn’t had enough time to consult some magical, large _“book of morality”_. Life didn’t _give_ you chances to uphold your own “code of honor” – it threw you into the wolf’s den, with only your _will to survive_ for company; and sometimes, you had to make bad choices, and close your eyes, and **_hope for the best_**.

And if _that_ was what it took, then by the will of God (if there was _even_ one up there), Mallory Wentz was **_not_** going to die.

No matter **_what_** it took. Even if it killed her inside and made her wish she had just given up rather than taken a **_black deal_**. For once in her life, she _wanted_ to be alive.

And she wasn’t giving that up, not for a stranger who had tried to **_frame her_** in the first place.

(What was that saying about _two wrongs making a right_?)

( _They don’t?_ )

…

And there were terms, _of course_. Because her “task” wasn’t difficult enough to swallow, as it was.

She wasn’t trusted to get it done without some “motivation”. And said “motivation” was in the form of the person who had been shadowing her all the way back to her home.

She had no idea what his name was, or whether or not she could even trust him to keep his **_violent urges_** to himself, or whether or not this was all some **_ploy_** to get her to drop her guard before they went back in to finish the job (because this was probably all just some “game” to them), but she _had_ to trust in the universe to give her a chance.

That was all she had left – the fickle universe, and an equally fickle fate.

And the small bit of **_faith_** in her heart that whispered, _“You can do this. You can **do** this.”_

_Fear – it’ll make fools out of the best of us._

She dared to sneak another look at the figure beside her.

He was watching her, and their eyes made contact.

She still couldn’t see _most_ of his face (especially not in the pitch black downpour), and she couldn’t understand _what_ he said to her when he’d caught her looking.

But she didn’t want to think about the **_impossibility_** of the task, or of communicating with a man whose language she didn’t know. It was late, and she was tired.

Mallory Wentz would settle for the knowledge that she was **_alive_**.

For now, that would _have_ to be enough. The rest could wait.

(And if she realized she’d made a big mistake, she was sure she could find some way out of this “situation” in the morning, when the air around her no longer held such a **_nightmarish_** quality.)

Her gaze drifted, and she found herself blinking a mixture of tears, sweat, and rain out of her eyes as she peered, higher, and higher, until she was watching the moon. Unwavering.

Unmoving.

Strong. _Resilient_. Unbending under the weight of the sky, or of the rain.

And for the first time in her life, Mallory realized she could be like that.

Sometimes, she couldn’t see herself, couldn’t tell what was **_inside_** of herself, but right when she needed it most, she found something to grip onto: **_hope_**. The strength that came with having to fend for herself for most of her life.

If she had been a weaker girl, she knew, she wouldn’t _be_ here, right now.

She would have died, long, long ago.

Or to the whims of that **_red-eyed devil_**.

But she was **_here_**. That had to mean _something_ … right?

(She didn’t notice that she had come in from the rain until her head was hitting her pillow.)

(And didn’t bother saying _anything_ to the strange man, or noticing how **_familiar_** he appeared to be with the Pet, or how the Pet whimpered, and whined, before curling up beside her.)

(The action was familiar enough that she automatically reached out, half-delirious with exhaustion, and pulled it in closer, before shutting her eyes, tightly, against **_reality_** , against fear, against uncertainty, against her own doubts and second-guesses and terrors.)

 _“You can do it,”_ her heart whispered, and despite the thundering in her chest, and the pressure exerting itself onto her soul by the mere **_presence_** of a murderous stranger inside the home that was once a “haven”, she almost **_believed_** it.

She _could_ do it. She would _have_ to.

And with that resolution on her tongue, she finally allowed her mind to drift away.

And didn’t think or feel anything for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is that final interlude -- the one that catches ya'all up to the "present".
> 
> If you forgot what happened to get her here, or about the "deal" she made "with the devil", you can re-read the prologue to catch yourself up. lolol
> 
> (I would recommend it. It's been a while, after all, since I started this story, and since I last updated.)
> 
> I won't be writing any more for this story for the rest of the year. The New Year, however, will be when I start working on the present-onward. (lolol. It just turned out that way, ironically enough.)
> 
> Symbolism, much?
> 
> Really, though, Mallory is in for the ride of her life.
> 
> (Oh, and btw, she still has no idea about their "true nature". lolol. Boy, if she thinks putting up with this is hard enough, right now, when they're still just "weirdos" to her, wait until she finds out what they really are.)
> 
> Merry Christmas, everyone. This is my gift to you, along with chapter 3 (which I updated today, as well, early in the morning). 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this story so far -- there's still much, much more to come! I'm working on updating the other project, too (the mixed continuities one), so have hope! I'll definitely try to get another update in there before the year ends. ^^;;
> 
> I love you all, and I thank you for sticking around, the few readers I have! You are the ones who motivate me to keep going!
> 
> Oh, and Happy Early New Year's! May all your resolutions give you the hope you need to plow onward. ^^


End file.
